


ear tags

by Madame la Problématique (callmearcturus)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Body Modification, Canon Asexual Character, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Elias is planning something but what else is new, Extended Conversations About The State Of The Dairy Industry, Hucow, Lactation, M/M, Milking, The Flesh is doing its best, dealing with aforementioned Altered Mental States
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/Madame%20la%20Probl%C3%A9matique
Summary: inspired by Bit_Not_Good'scattleseriesAmong all of the alterations made, the one that really draws Jon's eye is surprisingly mundane.He keeps looking at the ear tag.
Relationships: Jared Hopworth/Martin Blackwood, Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 135
Kudos: 257





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [not just bones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22264384) by [Bit_Not_Good](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bit_Not_Good/pseuds/Bit_Not_Good). 



> massive shout outs to Bit_Not_Good for the okay to have fun with this idea, to the discord for encouragement, to semnai for beta, and to cuttooth for the ear tags concept because it's genius.
> 
> this is directly inspired by Bit_Not_Good's "Cattle" series and [I highly recommend reading it before this](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610434) or some stuff isn't going to make sense. I guess the fast summary is "circa S1, Martin runs into Jared Hopworth, who turns him into a hucow." Now I'm here to insert un-asked-for plot to the equation.
> 
> also this fic assumes the post-statement of "Boneturner's Tale" is wrong. you'll see why.

Among all of the alterations made, the one that really draws Jon's eye is surprisingly mundane.

He keeps looking at the ear tag.

When Martin is sitting on the exam table with a heavy shock blanket wrapped around him and obscuring his form, his face is in profile, his mouth closed, lips pressed together, chin slightly ducked. And from his ear hangs a dark green matte tag, displaying the number _23_ to the room. The number is written in clear white ink, bold against the tag.

Jon crosses his arms as he watches someone from Research try to remove it. It's afixed with a metal pin, and when they grip it with pliers and pull, Martin's face twists in pain. He grasps the table under him and grimaces, leaning into the pliers as they pull, eyes shutting, lips peeling back from grit teeth.

They make another attempt, this time with more hands on Martin, everyone pitching in to brace him as the pliers return.

It's no better. Martin eventually pushes them away, hand clamped over his ear.

The researcher tries another tact, grabbing a pair of wire cutters.

The wire cutters don't survive. The ear tag does.

"It's fine," Martin says as the clutch of people brainstorm other methods, looking drawn and tired. "It's— it's fine, just leave it." He looks at his feet. "Least of my problems, honestly."

They catalog it for Artefact Storage, as an unusual item. Jon thinks of it as a talisman of sorts, and finds his eyes drawn to it over and over as Martin comes back to work.

* * *

It takes a while to learn the extent of the problem, actually.

Martin needs… specialized care now, every day. In an unnervingly short amount of time, Elias procures the right equipment, setting it up in a discreet room. Jon learns how the equipment works.

You really can get used to anything.

The _problem_ arrives a few months later, when a statement giver comes in, wrapped in a heavy coat, anxiously shivering every time someone so much as _glances_ at her.

And attached to her ear is another tag. Number _47._

There it is, the belated sound of the other shoe dropping.

* * *

There is at least something to be said for the clarity of purpose.

Forty-seven. There are at least forty-seven. Of which they know of Martin Blackwood and Idira Slate.

Jon moves a giant wheeled whiteboard into the archives, takes a ruler, and starts making a chart. Five columns, ten rows. He numbers each one, writes Martin's name in at 23 and Mz. Slate's name at 47, and jots down the later's location and phone number.

Martin stands to the side, holding a mug of tea to his chest. There's a slight tremble to his jaw, and Jon pauses, uncertain. Maybe he should roll the chart into his office so Martin doesn't have to see it.

But Martin looks at him and bites his lower lip. "So we're going to find them?"

There's no fear in his voice. Just a heavy resignation, the weight of responsibility.

Jon exhales hard; he didn't know he was waiting for Martin's approval until he had it. "Yes. Yes, that's the idea." He leans in to tidy up the lines of the chart. "Start going through the file boxes. Any statement from after 1996, pull it."

"1996," Martin echoes softly, eyes sliding ceiling-ward as he considers. "Oh, the… ah, the relative time that…"

"That Jared Hopworth began his work," Jon finishes. "Will you be alright?"

"Yes," Martin says immediately. "I, I'll split up the files between Tim and Sasha. And we should look online."

"I can start that, check the usual places. Apply some boolean search magic."

A smile cracks across Martin's face. "Okay. Let, ah, let me know? If you find anything? I figure, I— I'm most likely—"

"Of course." Jon touches Martin's elbows, a slight squeeze before leaving him to it.

* * *

(They take a break an hour later.

It's late in the afternoon, and Martin has been working admirably, unpacking files from boxes and organizing them. But Jon catches him in the stacks, idly rubbing his reddened cheeks. From the thousand mile stare on his face, it's clear Martin's lost the plot.

Thus, they adjourn to the milking room together, Jon unlocking the door for Martin.

They've done this enough that some of the hesitation has eroded away. Martin strips, and runs a shaky hand through his hair while Jon cups one of his breasts in a hand. The flesh is so soft, has so much give, it spreads beyond the reach of Jon's splayed fingertips, warm skin overflowing.

Everything about Martin is so alluringly soft lately.

Focusing, Jon slides the cup into place, then applies the other pump. When he activates the machine, his hand is already on Martin's arm to help guide him down as he settles on the floor.

One of Martin's hands curls around Jon's ankle, his flushed face against Jon's stomach. "Mmmhm, mmhm, g'd, Jon."

Taking a breath, Jon cards his hand through Martin's hair. He waits. He won't take advantage, so he waits until Martin's hands slide up the backs of his legs, cupping Jon's thighs right under his arse, and Martin's mouth open against his shirt.

Then, yes, with some haste, Jon unbuttons his pants and feeds his cock into Martin's eager, welcoming mouth, his own falling open as he groans.)

* * *

Number 56 is a young university student who arrives to give a statement.

Jacks Weatherly saw a posting online on the topic of ear tags and strange terrifying ordeals, and thankfully decided to come in. Jon's relieved; he hadn't expected much when he made those posts in a few pertinent supernatural discussion forums. It's good to know his haphazardly cast net managed to catch someone at least.

Weatherly's eyeliner is smudged from tears by the time they've finished giving their statement, their hands curled around the mug of stiff breakfast tea Martin made for them.

There is quiet conversation between the two of them, voices tipped lower than Jon can hear. Martin's presence seems to be a balm for Weatherly, as they take in the clear ways Martin's been affected by the same ordeal. Their eyes keep flicking to Martin's ear tag as they speak in hushed tones.

Jon is desperate to know what they're talking about, but the idea of breaking the moment is unthinkable. Weatherly's stiff posture is unpinning, relaxing as they speak with Martin.

Eventually, Martin rests his hand on the desk, and Weatherly hesitates for just a moment before taking it. Their fingers clasp, and Weatherly ducks their head to sniffle audibly. As they do, Martin's thumb rubs over the back of their hand.

It's incredible to Jon, that Martin can still be so kind. If their places were reversed, and Jon had been the one kidnapped and altered by Jared Hopworth, he isn't sure he would have survived. Not in any way that mattered. Not like Martin, who was eager to find the others affected and help them.

56\. They need to come up with a name for these people. The group is gaining membership fast.

Jon is still staring across the room at them when Elias settles in nearby, propping up the wall next to Jon. He's primly dressed, waistcoated with an actual watch chain hanging from his pocket.

He blows across the rim of his mug, a pale latte, and arches an eyebrow in response to Jon's glare. "Jonathan. Have I done something to earn your ire?"

"It just seems… gauche," Jon says.

Elias doesn't pretend not to understand Jon's meaning. "You would prefer, what? We tip it all down the drain?" It doesn't sound unreasonable to Jon, but Elias scoffs softly, and lifts his cup to his lips for a shameless sip. "Honestly, that seems unconscionably wasteful. We have plenty of it. And its lactose free."

"I," Jon starts, then stops in surprise. "What?"

"Oh, yes. I had it tested. Did you think I would put it in the reach of employees without my due diligence?" Elias draws his face into a perfect picture of offense before shaking his head.

"Regardless," Jon grinds out. "It might make Martin uncomfortable."

"Do you think so?" Lifting his chin, Elias fixes his gaze on Martin himself, across the room. "I find that the new weight on his shoulders is lessened by the belief he's being useful. Which is sensible enough. If we can turn our hardships into something positive, it makes them seem less tragic."

"And the best way to do that is— this?"

At that, Elias shrugs.

Jon's scolding is put on pause, as Martin approaches. There is a hard set to his eyes, dark and worried. "Jon. Elias."

Elias, damn him, grins. "Martin. Any useful information?"

"Yes. And, ah, actionable?" Martin bites his lip for a second, then says, "Mx Weatherly, they escaped Hopworth _last night._ And they think he's still there. Out by Lambourne End." He inhales, a flash of annoyance across his face. "He's… working out of some abandoned stables, apparently."

The snort of dark amusement escapes Jon before he can catch it. "Right. Of course."

"Now that," Elias says, "I would consider gauche."

Martin rolls his eyes and crosses his arms under his chest, which has the effect of accentuating his chest in a distracting way. "Well, what— what do we do? Weatherly thinks there might've been more people, kept in separate stalls."

"I have a car," Jon volunteers.

"Jon, don't be reckless," Elias says coolly. "We have contacts within the police. They have officers briefed in the strange and uncanny."

"They need to be careful," Martin says quickly, voice lifting. "Really, really careful."

"Martin." Elias reaches out, and puts a hand on Martin's shoulder, his thumb against Martin's neck as he bends to say quietly: "This isn't for you to worry about. You're doing excellent work, helping these people in a way only you can." He nods vaguely over Martin's shoulder. "Go on."

Shoulders sagging, Martin lets out a deep breath. "Right." Offering a wan smile, he retreats back to his desk, sitting with Weatherly again.

"See?" Elias says. "Being of use. Now, I have to pass on this information to the right people. You'll see to Martin's next milking, after his meeting?"

Heat floods Jon's face. "I, yes, alright."

"And maybe don't be… wasteful, this time?" Elias asks, and turns to go before Jon can come up with a response.

* * *

(Jon isn't wasteful.

Martin sits slumped in the chair in the milking room, head fallen all the way back, his mouth open around long, trembling moans. His fingers are carded deep into Jon's hair as Jon scrapes his teeth along the bottom of his nipple, sucking the warm skin into his mouth.

It's amazing how little effort it takes. Jon presses on the lush skin of Martin's breast, and warm liquid coats his tongue.

"Mm, mmm— J— Jon, fuck, Mmhmmm!" Martin covers his mouth with his free hand, trying to drown his moans.

Jon cups Martin's breast between both his hands, unable to stop now that he's begun, urging more out of Martin.

Milking takes quite a bit longer than usual.)

* * *

The police intervention doesn't work. The next day, Constable Hussain arrives with a grim expression and a story to tell, sitting across from Jon in his office, explaining what they found.

"The fight was terrible. Nearly got me with this vicious needle gun he was carrying around." Her lips press together in a grimace. "My partner hit him with her riot shield, thankfully."

"Did anyone get shot by the gun?" Jon asks intently.

"Yeah. It was weird, it was just one of those identification tags they use on livestock?" She holds her fingers apart, the approximate distance from edge to edge of the ear tag. "We tried to take it off him, but he started screaming."

"That sounds about right," Jon sighs. "The ear tags, they aren't… normal. Whoever it was, they should come in to speak with us. Martin can explain it best."

"Martin?"

"Yes, he…" A realization occurs to Jon. He glances at his watch. "He's usually here by now. It's nearly lunch." A cold wave of nausea gets him right under the ribs. "Constable, I… I need to look into something. Thank you for coming in. If you could send your associate along, it'd be for the best."

"Right," Hussain drawls quietly. "Problem?"

"Hopefully not." To make his point better known, Jon stands and offers his hand to shake. The contract of politeness works; she stands as well, and shakes his hand before seeing herself out.

As soon as she's gone, Jon walks out into the bullpen. "Is Martin in yet?"

Sasha turns away from the whiteboard chart. "Sorry?"

"Martin, is he in yet," Jon repeats, overenunciating.

"Uh, no? No, I haven't seen him."

 _Dammit._ Jon grabs his jacket from his office and leaves the archives, already dialing Martin's number.

* * *

It's not _easy_ to locate Martin, obviously.

First, he has to lie copiously to Martin's building manager, insist Martin hasn't been into work for several days before he's let into the apartment. When the manager mentions informing the police, Jon quickly claims to have done so already, and rattles off a fake case number for the manager to call in about.

While he's occupied, Jon finds Martin's laptop on his coffee table. It's open, and wakes with just a simple mouse shake.

What's good, what's a godsend, is that Martin uses one of those handy password managers, and that it's logged in on his computer. Jon quickly looks up Martin's android account password, snaps a picture for himself, and makes his exit before the building manager is even off the phone.

He has to go all the way back to his place to pick up his car. Usually, he just takes the Tube to the Institute. As he rides along to his stop, Jon plugs in Martin's information, and searches for the phone's location.

It's back in fucking Lambourne End. Jon sends the address to Elias with a curt _'Martin taken by Hopworth. He's here. Send assistance.'_

It's a fifty minute drive out of London. Jon's heart is pounding the whole way.

* * *

Going into the abandoned building is distinctly not one of Jon's smartest moments, not by a longshot. If he was wise, he would have waited in his car, kept an eye on the location, and watched for signs of anyone leaving until help arrived.

However, the thought of Martin inside, alone with a monster who had already hurt him, is too much to bear. Sitting in the relative safety of his little sedan while Martin is tortured not a hundred meters away is untenable.

So, Jon gets the heavy metal flashlight out of his trunk and holds it like a club, using his phone for actual light as he walks through the overgrown grass and to the door.

The building appears to be one of the old equestrian stables, long since out of use. There are parts of the roof that have rusted and bent from rain and lack of upkeep, and there's piles of debris in every corner, old dusty hay and broken planks of wood shoved to the side.

The floors are old and creaky, an unfortunate and accurate alarm system for the dilapidated place. Jon learns quickly to stop lifting his feet, sliding across the floor and avoiding the louder parts of the floor the best he can.

If Hopworth is here, he'll hide. But if not, if he manages to find Martin, they can escape before Hopworth returns.

It'd be much easier if Jon could just call Martin's phone and follow the noise.

There are open stable doors lining the walls, and a distant office with its door torn clear off the hinges. Most stalls are dark, but a few have a flickering glow, like candle or lamp light.

Jon shakes his phone light off and holds his breath as he comes in closer to the open stalls. Muffled noises seem to be growing in volume, and Jon is peripherally aware that he is in the shoes of a statement giver right now. If he's lucky— _lucky_ — then he'll commit this to tape later.

He just hopes Martin will be there when he does.

His goal is to peer around the corner, into one of the stalls. To catch a glimpse.

Instead, he goes momentarily blind as a sudden beam of light gets him right in the face. It's a bright white artificial sort of light, and his eyes burst with vivid spots and he recoils, taking a sudden step that lets out a deafening creak.

"Well. We have a visitor, it seems," someone says smoothly.

Trying to see them is difficult; they keep shining that damn light in Jon's face. He lifts his arm to try and shade enough to see.

"I knew this wasn't going to stay low-key. I did say. Jared!" the same voice calls, casual as can be.

The distant, indistinct noises stop, and Jon staggers back as the stall door, the one he had been _about_ to glance around, is filled by a man. And properly filled, his body tall and large enough to encompass the entire doorway with ease.

The light in Jon's eyes abruptly flicks off, leaving spots smudged across his vision.

Jared Hopworth grunts. "Fine. You're right." He sighs. "Narrow, underfed. Hard to work with that."

"Wh-what have you d-done with Martin?" Jon asks loudly, aiming for forceful but sounding mostly frantic.

"Martin," the other person says quietly.

Jared takes another step closer and Jon lifts the hefty flashlight with both hands, teeth clenched in fear.

"What's your name then?" the other asks.

"J-Jonathan Sims. I'm fr-from the Institute, th-the Magnus Institute, I jus— just want to see Martin," Jon manages, his words falling to pieces in his panic.

"Jared, wait." The other person steps forward. He's a reedy sort of man, dark-skinned and wearing all black. He blends in perfectly with the darkness, and it's no wonder Jon didn't see him. "I gave my statement to them. After you went after the book."

Jared, looming, grunts meaningfully. "After you clobbered me."

"Sure, yes," the man says, rolling his eyes.

Jon inhales. "You're… Adekoya. Sebastian Adekoya."

Adekoya lets out a low whistle. "Yeah. Well." He taps the back of his hand against Jared's enormous arm. "Why'd you come out here, if you knew?"

"Martin. You took Martin again. Why?"

Jared straightens, and Jon had no idea he had been hunched over until he rose to a frightful height. "Good cow. Needs some adjustments."

Showing anger around such dangerous people is a Bad Idea, but Jon can't help but bristle and snap, "He's not a cow!"

"Oh dear," Adekoya says. "Hey, listen. Did you bring anything more than, you know, a flashlight as a weapon?"

"Yes. I brought plenty of weapons," Jon says.

Adekoya snorts. "Thought so. Uh, why don't you come in? Let's… talk, yeah. Follow up statement, I guess?"

Shifting like a mountain, Jared glances down at his companion. "Wanna get back to it."

"Yeah, go for it." Patting Jared's arm again, Adekoya looks up at Jon. "Sims, right? Come on. I can probably explain some things."

* * *

This stall in particular seems to be a veterinary station. There are shelves of equipment along the walls, mostly hidden behind the sort of glass set with wireframe reinforcements. There are enormous cone lights overhead that likely provided adequate illumination once upon a time.

Now, they are dead and dim. Instead, there's multiple electric lamps set around the room, filling the stall with the faint buzz of filament.

Jon takes everything in with wide eyes.

Jared points one meaty finger at an old stool near the cabinets. "Sit. You move, you regret it."

He sits, his feet tucked onto the metal rung below him.

Martin is stretched out on a metal table, blissfully unconscious. His eyes are almost peacefully shut, unaware of the danger or his state of undress or the hulking mass that's examining him with enormous hands.

The stool next to Jon squeaks as Adekoya boosts himself onto it and sits. "So, how much do you know about the dairy industry?"

Lacking any way to truly convey his utter bafflement at the question, Jon turned his head slowly to stare at Adekoya.

Adekoya, for his part, patiently waited.

"I don't tend to drink milk," Jon says in a hollow voice. "What does that have to do with… _this?"_

"Pretty much everything?" Adekoya smiles. It might've been charming if Jon were not locked with fear. "I mean, the dairy industry as it stands is imminently unsustainable. It's all going to factory cows now, all the smaller operations can't keep up. And demand's down due to the more diverse options, you see. So there's more milk being gathered by corporations than ever before, a huge part of it is being thrown out because fewer people are buying, and meanwhile it's having a massive ecological impact. A non-insignificant part of climate change is the fault of dairy."

"Okay," Jon says dully, completely baffled.

"There was an article in The Guardian about this, did you see it? Summed it up pretty good."

"I… no. I missed that one."

"Well, I can't recall the hard numbers for you off the top of my skull, but it's pretty significant. And you'd think!" Adekoya lets out a little laugh. "You'd think the diversification of milks would help, right? But most of them are pretty bad for the environment in their own ways. I used to drink almond milk plenty before I knew how much water waste is involved there. Oat milk is actually the best, but that's more than five quid, and the production is just not there yet to feasibly replace cow milk, you know?"

Why the hell is this man lecturing him about milk while Martin lays on an exam table? Jon watches Jared press his hands into the open expanse of Martin's skin, feeling and squeezing where the flesh is supple, the places Martin's grown soft since he was altered.

Suddenly, Jared's hand sinks _into_ Martin's chest, right through his skin. There's no blood, no cuts, but the sight is traumatic, and Jon nearly launches himself at the table.

Adekoya puts a hand on Jon's knee and his shoulder, holding him back. "He's _fine,_ Sims. You're not listening."

"I am listening," Jon snaps. "I fail to see what all this has to do with you kidnapping Martin and changing him!"

"Better cows," Jared says curtly, continuing to rummage around in Martin's body.

"I was getting to that," Adekoya sighs.

"Never use five words when twenty'll do," Jared mutters. "Need better cows. I can make 'em." He retrieves a hand from inside Martin, leaving no mark behind, to pat Martin's mussed hair with something approaching genuine affection. "This one's very good."

"The idea is to make a better alternative," Adekoya says, shooting Jared a glare for his interruption. "I told Jared all this, read the studies and articles out for him, and he figured he could do better. So our cows, like Martin." He gestures to Martin's lax body. "They produce plenty of milk, but fewer greenhouse gasses obviously. And because they're still autonomous, they can take care of themselves between milkings. Like, dairy cows, they're really hard to care for, right? And the shortcuts corporations take just add to the climate problems."

"I'm sorry, do I have this right?" Jon asks, aware his voice is leaping high enough to sound almost shrill. "You're kidnapping people and tagging them and turning them into— into _this_ for the sake of climate change?!"

"They're lactose free too," Adekoya adds.

"Seb's lactose intolerant," Jared tacks on helpfully.

"And you noticed the tags! They were Jared's idea, and it's a stroke of genius, honestly." From his coat, Adekoya draws a needle gun. Jon can see plainly the green hang tag loaded into it. "I don't know how it works because it seems like magic to me, but when Jared makes a change to the… the template, I guess? That we're using, the change rolls out over everyone who's tagged. It's like patching software."

"Gotta be careful," Jared says. "Too much, too fast, it's bad." His hands curl around Martin's breasts. Just one is big enough to almost encompass one breast. He lifts his head, looking at Jon. "You take care of this one?"

Swallowing, Jon nods. "We try. He needs our help."

"Doing well. Nice an' big." He gives the breasts a firm pat, and they jiggle almost comically. "He makin' a lot?"

Jon nods again.

"That's great." Adekoya clasps his hands together, rubbing them. "Most of this template is working well, and we've applied it to a lot of people now. But we wanted to check up on some previous cows to make sure they're doing okay. And push out some new updates." He smiles and pats Jon's knee again. "We're not going to hurt him. You can take him home if you like! That'll be much better than him just waking up in a scary place, I wager."

"What changes," Jon forces himself to ask.

"Oh, can't tell you that," Adekoya answers immediately. "It's just things to help move everything along. Help with… proliferation." He grins, seeming terrifically pleased with himself. "Now that we got the broad strokes right, it's all about getting them out there."

"Do you mean to turn everyone into… this?"

"No! No, god. Then who'd take care of them?" He shakes his head. "We've got it all figured out, don't worry."

Oh good. At least they had it figured out. Jon felt slightly faint.

At some point, Jon begins to stare in a grotesque fascinated horror at Jared's work. He sinks into Martin like parting silk, and the only sign of effect is the occasional shudder that runs through Martin's body. His bare toes twitch and curl intermittently, and his head lolls bonelessly as Jared works.

Eventually, Jared cups Martin's neck, and pushes one finger in, and Jon closes his eyes against the faint feeling washing over him. Hopefully Martin will forgive him for not watching over him during this.

"All done. Wake up, cow."

When Jon looks, Jared is rousing Martin, doing something with a hand in his chest. Thankfully removing it, Jared leans back as Martin stirs.

The moment Martin realizes how cold the stable is is heralded by a full body shiver, and him rolling onto his side, legs curling up, arms folded up under his breasts.

Unable to keep away, Jon slides off the stool, glancing at Adekoya. When there's no reproach, Jon continues to the table and takes one of Martin's hands in both of his.

Eyes flutter open, and slowly focus on him. "Jon," Martin breathes.

"Are you alright?" Jon brings Martin's knuckles to his lips, pressing briefly.

"I…" Martin blinks a few times, slowly. "Sore. Really sore." He lifts his head to look around the room.

Squeezing his hand again, Jon says, "Stay calm. You— you were abducted again. But you're not hurt, and we're going to go home, alright? I'm going to take you home."

Martin's eyes widen by degrees. "What? How, I— I was, what?" His focus on Jon breaks as he rolls onto his back. When he sees Jared, still looming like a particularly buff lamp post, he cries out, shifting along the table closer to Jon. "No, no no no."

"Hi, cow." Jared lifts a hand. It's unhelpful in calming Martin, so Jon wraps both arms around Martin as he tries to squirm again, drawing him close to his chest.

"It's alright, you're alright," Jon repeats senselessly into Martin's hair.

In his corner, Adekoya takes out his phone and taps at it idly. "J, we should get going. If you're going to test him out, hop to it."

Jared _rolls his eyes_ . "'Cause my name. Funny." He pats the table. "Come here, cow. We're almost done."

Martin shoots Jon a wild-eyed look. Jon secures his grip the best he can, given Martin's naked and there's nothing to hold onto. "What tests?"

"Not gonna hurt him. Jus' make sure everything works." Jared pats the table. When neither of them move, he goes on, "Gonna happen one way or another. You wanna stay, hold his hand, that's fine."

Of course Jon stays.

Martin winds up bent over a sturdy cushioned chair, and leaning his weight on his hands, so Jon holds his wrists, trying to keep that connection as Jared settles in behind him.

Watching Martin's face is riveting. When Jared moves, seems to push into Martin, the way the hot flush spills across his cheeks, flowing up from his neck, is deeply affecting. He cups Martin's face, fingers tucked into his hair, and watches it come over Martin by degrees. The way his resistance just dissolves into a hazy expression devoid of anything but need makes Jon equal parts afraid and interested.

When he can break eye contact, he looks past Martin's shoulder and watches Jared fucking into him with sharp, even thrusts. Every impact sounds wet and makes the softness of Martin's arse and hips ripple slightly.

Jared reaches down, around Martin's body to take his swinging teats in each hand. Desperate moans pull out of Martin, long drawn "Mmhmmmm" sounds sealed behind his lips while milk drips onto the floor.

Something about it apparently isn't up to standards; Jared straightens and puts a hand on Martin's back to brace as he shoves in harder, and grinds his hips.

It runs through Martin like a shockwave, his entire body trembling. When it breaks, Martin's head hangs down, and he lets out a plaintive, wanton, "Mmmhm— mhmmoooo, mmmooooo."

Jon's breath sticks in his chest.

"Oh, finally got it working," Adekoya says brightly. When Jon's head whips around to look at him, he's still messing around on his phone, as if completely unaffected by the tableau before him. "Jared's been trying to get that to work for a while now." He glances up briefly, and smiles. His voice goes stage whisper as he says, "He thinks it's cute."

"Good cow," Jared says, and pats Martin's head fondly as he keeps grinding into him. For his efforts, Martin seems _gone_ .

* * *

After, Jon gets to take Martin home, wrapped up in an emergency blanket he's kept in the back of his car for years. Mostly, Jon struggles to keep his eyes on the road, gaze drawn aside to Martin at every opportunity.

Martin just sleeps, which seems a blessed relief.

It's some ungodly hour of the nebulous space between night and morning when Jon replaces his car in one of the sparse parking spots outside his building. Thank goodness, as he has to bundle Martin upstairs as quickly as possible. He's too out of his head, shocky and vibrating with residual tension to think of a decent lie for why he's leading a naked man up to his flat.

Thankfully, they don't encounter anyone.

Come morning, they go into the Institute, albeit arriving very late.

"You can still go home and rest," Jon says for the tenth time as he follows Martin to his desk, hovering as Martin gingerly lowers himself into his chair.

"I know," Martin murmurs. "But then I have to take care of the milking on my own, and that's a hassle." His eyes slide slowly up to meet Jon's. "And, I don't… really want to be on my own right now."

"Alright." Jon can understand that well enough. "Don't push yourself. I— I'll go and make tea."

That brings such a genuine smile to Martin's face, Jon's body swells with warmth. "Oh. Thanks. Milk and sugar. Like, more sugar than's reasonable."

Jon leaves, but doesn't go to get tea just yet.

First, he goes up to the top floor to see Elias.

Annoyingly, Elias seems ready for him. He's winding up to a decent bit of outrage when Elias simply looks from his monitor to Jon and holds up his finger. "Jonathan."

"Where _were_ you," Jon asks, nearly growling in anger. "I told you, I told you to send help. We needed help!"

"Jonathan," Elias says again, with the exact same cadence. "I'm sorry that your message went unanswered. Unfortunately, I was meeting with one of our donors at the time, and I didn't see your message until morning. Since then, I've added your number as an emergency contact, so it should break through the Do Not Disturb function."

The idea that his plea had gone unanswered because of something so _banal_ — Jon clenches his hands then digs both through his hair. "Elias."

"I know," he says soothingly. "I'm glad to see you here and whole, not to mention _untagged_ , but also sorry you had to go through such an ordeal." He gestures to the chair in front of his desk. "Would you like to sit? Tell me about it? Did you learn anything from Mr. Hopworth?"

The desire to spill it all out tickles at the back of Jon's throat. He does want to unleash the entire story on Elias, force him to experience all of it the best he can.

But Jon deflates. "No. I told Martin I would bring him tea."

"How sweet," Elias says. "We'll talk later. I'm sure together we can make something of the situation."

Nodding vaguely, Jon takes his leave.

It doesn't occur to Jon to consider just what Elias wants to make of the situation until much later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all that dairy stuff is me making fun of myself, because I super care about alternative milk solutions and the state of the diary industry because its a complicated topic, so the Flesh boys being motivated by a mundane concern like that is very funny to me? hopefully it was funny. shout outs to oat milk, even tho it's fffffucking expensive.
> 
> i actually have a big porny one-shot for this AU written, but it takes place a few years down the road? i dunno if i should should jump ahead and post it or do another bridging story to set things up.
> 
> listen. my discord, we all read Bit_Not_Good's amazing fucksmithery and were _inspired_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yep, more

Martin was enjoying his lunch in peace, sitting in the break room with an exceptional sandwich and his mind glazing over as he watched the muted television. The subtitles were on, and Martin was thoroughly enjoying reading along as some culinary expert explained the various uses of vanilla. Putting a pod into a jar of sugar seemed so easy, Martin wondered if he could try that.

"Martin," Tim said as he leaned into the break room, his hand on the door frame, holding him upright. "Your phone has been vibrating for the last twenty minutes, man."

Frowning, Martin looked at the phone in Tim's hand, with its faux-wooden case. It was audibly buzzing away.

"I know," Martin said. "Sort of needed a break from it."

"Yeah, well. Put it on silent next time." Tim loped over to Martin, setting the phone down on the table. "Didn't realize you were _this_ popular. Congrats."

"Ha ha," Martin grumbled, picking up the phone and checking the notifications. A dozen separate text conversations were active, waiting for him. "It's all the other tagged people."

"You know, as admirable as this is— and I don't mean any sarcasm there, none at all— if we're up to three digits of these people, I think using your mobile as the epicenter of communications might not work anymore." Tim held up his hands and spread them expansively. "Scalability and modularity and all that."

Humming, Martin turned off the vibrate and put the phone done. "Not a terrible idea." He tried for a smile, wan and tired. "Is it a bother? Me working on this stuff?"

"No?" Tim helped himself to a banana and muffin from the sideboard. "I mean, it's not what I expected when I got transferred down. But it works, I suppose. Sash and I find them, you talk to them and help get them set up, and Jon does whatever Jon does." He looked up at Martin. "Are _you_ good?"

This week, Martin had had The Talk about four new people, two of whom arrived on the same day. They were coming in regularly now.

Somewhere out there, Hopworth was keeping himself busy.

"I'm good," Martin said. "I'm helping. I feel like I'm helping." He looked down at his sandwich. "S'all I want, honestly."

Tim's hand landed on Martin's shoulder, squeezing. "Well. Good. Keep on keeping on."

Martin never got the impression Tim was particularly good at this sort of thing, and so appreciated the effort. "Thanks, Tim."

"Yeah. Later." With a last firm pat, Tim slipped out of the room, leaving Martin alone.

His phone didn't buzz, but the screen lit up as more messages came in.

Wrapping up the last few bites of his sandwich, Martin binned it and went upstairs. Tim had a point.

* * *

(Elias was always glad to see Martin.

The new direction his Institute was taking as they dealt with the situation with the Flesh was unexpected, but Elias had learned lifetimes ago it was better to have adaptability than to have perfect foresight, and thus Elias adjusted. His archivist was diligently cataloging every aspect of the Flesh's exploits, and there was always more information streaming through their doors.

Martin, though. He was special.

"Come in, Martin," Elias said mildly as he heard the tap on the door.

The door swung further open, letting Martin enter. Elias finished the note he was writing, setting his pen aside to grant his full attention.

Time had eroded some of Martin's discomfort. Now, he looked well enough. Didn't hunch as much as he used too, and fewer frumpy jumpers to cover himself. Not for the first time, Elias thought it was plenty to work with.

"Hi, uh, Elias. Sorry to bother you."

"Do you need help?" Elias asked.

"Yes. But, oh, no! Not that, I'm— I'm good," Martin said, going slightly pink around his cheeks. "Maybe later, but— Tim mentioned something, and I thought it was a good idea, but it's… a resource thing?"

"Sit, Martin." He gestured to the chair, putting on a comfortably bland smile. "How can I help?"

Settling in, Martin said, "I… well, I spend a lot of time helping the others. Others like me. M-most of my time now, honestly."

"A very noble cause."

"Yeah. But it's getting more difficult to keep track of everyone. Like, we have contact info for everyone, and they have my number if they need advice, but." With a grimace, Martin took out his mobile, tapped it a few times, then placed it on the desk. 

Immediately, it buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then continued along, with brief pauses between each notification.

Steepling his fingers, Elias leaned forward. "Do you have a project in mind?"

"Yeah. But I want to do it correctly? Like, set up one of those communication platforms, like… what Research uses?"

"Slack, I believe."

"Yeah. And I could… build lists and resources and—" Martin smiled briefly. "Uh, and FAQs and such, for people who need them. We can keep track of how the— the tags are effecting everyone, watch for outliers and such."

With practiced poise, Elias nodded, keeping his face neutral. He knew well how much the other… _affected_ relied on Martin. The way they trusted him implicitly as soon as they met him could have been an aspect of Martin's aura of good nature, though Elias wondered if there was something else going on underneath. A sort of herd mentality.

At some point, Elias had to have a conversation with Hopworth and Adekoya. Their work was _fascinating._

Plucking up his pen, Elias set it to his scratch pad and began jotting things down. "This is all good. Allocating some resources to you should be simple. And I'll have IT set up this chat service for you. If it alleviates the worries of your fellows, then it's worth doing." Martin's face illuminated. "And it's a low-impact way to keep track of how things are progressing. We have very little warning before changes occur." He paused, letting out a considering hum. "An application. perhaps? To track milk production and new symptoms? We could collate the data and be prepared."

"Uh, okay?" Martin let out an incredulous laugh. "We, can we make apps?"

"I could hire someone discrete, and you can share it with those around you." Setting his pen back down, he fixed his gaze on Martin. "We're in a position to help. We're on the ground floor of this situation. It's negligence to not take advantage."

"Yeah. Yeah." Martin swallowed, his eyes holding Elias' with some effort. "We can help."

"I'll reach out to the necessary people. Until then…" He nodded to Martin's phone. "Tolerate that for a little longer."

"Will do." Martin stood. "Ah, thanks. Thank you, Elias."

"No, thank you, Martin," Elias said, smiling as Martin left.)

* * *

When Martin checked on Jon, he had his headphones in, attached the tape recorder as it spun with a low mechanical whir. His eyebrows were furrowed as he listened. Most likely it was the statement of number 146. With a firm grip on a good pen, Jon scrawled notes across a yellow pad.

Martin was patient, and waited, toying with his hat. He'd taken to wearing a knit cap when he left the Institute; if he turned his ear tag upward, he could hide it as he went home.

Eventually, Jon blinked and seemed to notice Martin. Immediately, he jabbed the stop button on the playdeck and tugged his headphones loose. "Martin." He furrowed some more. "Did you need help?"

"No, no," Martin said quickly. "Ah, Sasha, she— she set everything up for me, since you were busy."

A strange twist took over Jon's expression. "Oh. I could… you can always interrupt if you need me."

A laugh startled out of Martin. "Since when? I've never seen you more worked up than when someone bothers you during statements."

Jon glared down fiercely at his notes, as if unwilling to aim it at Martin. "That— I was— yes, generally speaking I prefer it when people respect the sanctity of a closed office door, _however_ ," his lip pressed out in what was dangerously close to a pout. "That, there are… circumstances. Extenuating circumstances, with you." He went on, faster. "So consider me available to help whenever you need."

"Okay," Martin said slowly, smiling. "Don't need help with that. But it's half seven, and I was going to head out."

"Is it really," Jon muttered, picking up his phone and squinting at its display. "Huh."

"Yeah."

There was a moment of delay as Jon continued to stare peevishly at his phone. Then, he looked up. "Can I walk you home?"

Martin's chest warmed, and he couldn't get a grip on his smile. Of course, he hoped. Since the second abduction, Jon had offered frequently to take Martin home, and it was nice. It helped immensely. Riding the tube home alone had become honestly one of the more difficult parts of his condition; then, more than ever, he felt the weight of his strangeness, felt like everyone was staring at him, that they knew.

But when Jon sat with him, it helped.

After Jon packed his things up, they went home, Jon's thigh sure and pressed firm to Martin's as they waited for Martin's stop. He walked with Martin the three extra blocks to his building, and he walked upstairs to the door, and he slipped inside as Martin's heart pounded in his chest.

That was happening more and more often. It was dangerously close to becoming a Thing, with Jon scowling at Martin's cabinets before making something for dinner, and Martin making evening tea, and Jon sleeping with his body pressing into the softness of Martin's, head on Martin's chest.

* * *

By the time the next afflicted person arrived, Martin at least had a system going. It required them to put up another monitor on his desk because there were just more windows to keep track of, and Martin found it imminently weird to get used to skipping the mouse from one to the other. But it worked.

Tim helped some. Something in his background in publishing gave him more of a handle on this stuff, how to organize documents and make them easy to find. Eventually, Martin just spent afternoons typing up… useful things, forms and bulleted lists and a few helpful resources, and Tim put them together in an order made sense and was easy to navigate for newcomers.

"What are we calling people like you now?" Tim asked in the mid-afternoon. 

They'd been plugging away for a while. Martin had taken the statement of number 147 and handed it off to Jon before returning to the document he was writing.

Rubbing his face, Martin asked, "Sorry?"

"I mean, there's lots of euphemistic language in this, and the editor in me is itchin' to take a red pen to it," Tim said. His feet were up on the corner of his desk, and his laptop was balanced on his lap. "We're going to need a name for you, especially if more people are going to come into the flock, excuse the pun."

At least he didn't say 'herd.' Martin glowered down at his keyboard. "Well, I— I don't know if that's necessary."

"Just saying, you have the chance to decide that name. I'd take that over letting someone else come up with it anyday." He pointed at the laptop. "Also, seriously, the euphemisms. They're killing me, Martin."

He had a point.

Thinking about it was put on hold for a while. A long morning and afternoon of nearly constant work had left Martin distracted and sore in that very particular way.

He had permission to interrupt Jon, but could hear him recording statement notes through the door, and hesitated there long enough waiting for Jon to finish up, so long that Elias stepped down the steps into the archives.

He set a sheaf of papers on Tim's desk. Tim, who suddenly didn't have any idle chatter and kept his eyes firmly on his screen as he worked.

"Martin," Elias said smoothly. "I have something for us to try. Come along."

With one last glance at the head archivist's office door, Martin followed along. As expected, they walked to the milking room.

However, inside, there was something new.

"I've been thinking extensively about your comfort during milkings, as you may guess," Elias said. "They are getting longer, and I do have some ideas on how best to situate you for each session." His hand rested on the new seat in the room: a padded bench with a thick cushion. It was curved in a specific way that brought to mind… 

"It, uh. Looks a little like a saddle?" Martin gave it a suspicious look.

Elias turned to look at the seat, as if surprised at the revelation. "Hm. Now that you mention it, I suppose it does. It's something I saw in a medical catalog." He patted it briskly. "Clothes off, and up."

Wrinkling his nose, Martin shot Elias a stung look. "I— you know, it'll be a mess."

"Medical grade, Martin. The surface is treated to be antimicrobial." The smile on Elias' face was self-satisfied.

"Right." Sighing, Martin started to strip down. He wasn't thrilled to have something new sprung on him, but he was heavy and needing tending to regardless.

The— seat thing, it was just a little too far off the ground, and Martin had to slide onto it from the side first, then twist around to face the right way. Elias offered his arm for balance.

"Hm. Perhaps a lever, to raise and lower the saddle, wouldn't be amiss."

"We're not calling it that," Martin muttered, even as he wiggled against the saddle and tried to get comfortable. Which, he did. The cushion was thick enough it supported his weight well, and the surface didn't pull and chafe at his skin. Also, the firm pressure against him, between his legs, was not completely unaffecting. Swallowing thickly, he tried to stop moving around.

"Comfortable?" Elias asked.

"Can we get started?" Martin asked in return. There was something about how the cushion moulded around his legs, pushing his thighs apart, that was making him wet.

Elias took the time to roll up both of his sleeves while Martin sat there, aching. Then, both his hands settled firmly into the soft flesh of Martin's chest, fingertips curling and digging in.

With a sharp gasp, Martin's head rolled back, and warm milk dripped out of him, like a cup that had been threatening to spill finally being tipped. Rivulets ran down from his nipples, along his skin, warm streams.

Keeping one hand firmly dug into one breast, Elias worked more and more milk from Martin, his other hand tucking into Martin's hair. His thumb stroked Martin's temple almost tenderly. "Very good." His hand loosened, then tightened, pulling down along his teat. More gushed out. "We should start measuring volume, I think."

Martin slumped, eyes half-closed as Elias pulled at him and pet his hair. "Mmmhm. Mm."

"That feels good, doesn't it?" He kept one hand on Martin the whole time as he readied the pumps and secured them against Martin's damp skin.

Head lolling down, Martin looked at the wide clear cups that were tugging greedily at his teats. They splashed intermittently with white as the machine started, then the suction came in earnest, and full streams flowed out of him. But also, Martin stopped watching, just soaking in the hungry feeling, the strange pleasure of his milk weight being taken from him. "Mmhmmooooo, mhm."

Warm hands cupped his head, Elias holding him firmly as Martin writhed on the saddle, grinding his dick against it and giving in to the florid, vivid sensations that washed over him.

"Very good, Martin," Elias said in a breathy voice. "Very good."

* * *

Martin settled on a term.

"It's sort of an old archaic word?" He told Jon quietly. "I think it's distant enough to not seem… cruel, or anything. Everything else I looked at just made me feel bad."

"Kine is good," Jon murmured. "Still denotes a group, and that— that's important. The reminder you're not alone."

"It's not too weird?"

"It's very you," Jon said diplomatically, and smiled when Martin let out a laugh. "Like something out of Shakespeare. _Enter, the kinefolk, from stage left."_

"It is, isn't it." He failed not to be inordinately pleased at the idea. "Well. Last cup of tea for the night," Martin announced putting the cup and saucer down by Jon's stack of papers. "Please go home soon."

"I have to finish up, or I'll lose the thought." He glanced up at Martin and gave a wan smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Please get some sleep between now and then!" But Martin left him to it; he was eager to go home and relax a bit. By now, the chirping of his phone had settled down, but he was eager to be away from the desk computer for a bit.

Not that it was all bad. With things coming together, it was… deeply reassuring to have a virtual room full of people like him. Kine, kinefolk, chattering on about everything from their encounters with the man who did this to them, to more mundane things like a staggering amount of milk-centric memes. So really, the whole spectrum of dealing with trauma.

It was a little intimidating. There was a small crown icon sat next to _@mkb_23_ and everyone spoke to him like an expert. He didn't feel like an expert. He felt like someone muddling through everything poorly.

Deep in his thoughts, Martin walked from the tube station to his building, staring mostly at his feet as he mechanically made his way along.

He only shook out of his reverie when someone was in his way, sitting on the front steps of the building.

A few months ago, Martin would not have recognized him. But now, he recognized him immediately, and staggered back a step.

Sebastian Adekoya looked up from his phone and grinned. "Oh, hey. You certainly work some mad hours, getting back this late at night. Do you make overtime?"

"Ahh?!" Martin said, voice strangled as he backed up more.

He didn't make it far before his back hit something else. Large, meaty hands fell hard onto his shoulders, reminding Martin of nothing so much as the bars of a rollercoaster chair coming down to pen him in. "Hi, cow."

Trying to wiggle away didn't work; he dropped his shoulders and tried to duck to the side, only for Jared's arms to close in tighter. "Oh, no no no, now what, what do you _want,_ what could you possibly still do to me?!"

Adekoya hopped to his feet and stalked in close. "Well, things aren't really advancing as quickly as we want? We thought the effects would have spread further, so we just wanna take a second look, see how we've maybe cocked it up just a bit and then fix it. That's all."

Jared patted Martin atop his head. Martin turned and tried to hit him. It didn't seem to bother him at all.

"I could scream," Martin said.

"You could," Adekoya said mildly. And held up a needle gun with a green tag loaded in.

Martin glared at him.

"Just think of it as a check up," he said with an amenable grin. "Come along. Sooner we start, sooner you're set loose."

* * *

There was never a more surreal moment in Martin's life than sitting in the back of a sedan with the child locks on as Sebastian Adekoya and Jared Hopworth sat in the front seat, arguing about directions.

Taking out his phone, he texted Jon: _'Been kidnapped again, Hopworth and Adekoya again. We're driving. Passing camden. Will text final location.'_

"There, there, Kent Town Road, it's there," Adekoya said, pointing.

"Hngh. Hard to see at night," Jared muttered.

"Can't do something about your eyes? Swap them out?"

Jared grunted something very quietly, then said, "Don't wanna mess 'em up."

"Then eat more carrots or something."

 _'They are really annoying tbh'_ Martin tagged on before leaning his head back and shutting his eyes.

Another kidnapping, another bloody abandoned vet hospital. Martin fired off his location to Jon before obediently following his captors inside, sighing loudly. "Why are you doing this?"

"Narrow that down," Adekoya said. "I mean, you know the broadsheet of it now. I gave the entire pitch to Sims."

"Fine," Martin snapped, balling his fists. "Why me? Why did you come back here to kidnap _me?"_

"You're just kind of the best one we've made?" Adekoya said, sounding confused himself. "And Jared likes you best."

Jared nodded as he opened the doors and beckoned everyone inside. Before long, Martin was set on an exam table, glowering at Jared as the enormous man washed his hands in the sink, vigorously scrubbing as if he were a surgeon.

Those hands would go in him soon. Martin's stomach flipped and he dragged himself along the exam table, making distance. "Is— is all this, is it necessary?"

"Yep," Adekoya said, popping the sound loudly as he found a chair to sit in, phone already out. 

His heart sank. "Do you anything else but check twitter while your friend shoves his hands into people?"

Adekoya looked up with a frown. "Do you know how hard it is to have a life and keep up with news when you're a professional vagrant? Mind yourself."

Jared patted Martin on the head again. "Seb doesn't mean it," he said, as if Martin needed a reassurance.

"We are not friends!" Martin snapped.

"Clothes off," Jared told him.

Martin sighed, and started unbuttoning.

They still hadn't quite started when there was a crash outside the room.

Distantly, a voice called, "Martin? Martin!"

Adekoya smiled. "You guys are a matched set, huh?" Tipping his head back, he called back, "In here!"

The sight of Jon gave Martin a wash of relief, even as haggard as he looked, still dressed in the same jumper he'd been wearing at work. He had his keys in his fist, the points of metal between each knuckle.

Looking up, Jared observed this and snorted. "Funny."

"Want to sit?" Adekoya offered.

Jon flinched, his eyes darting between both of them, seeming thrown by the candor aimed his way. "Martin? How— how are you?"

"I'm marveling at how utterly deranged my life is, thanks. Bit cold." His eyes found Jon's, and that sense of relief swelled in him. "Glad you're here."

"Thought you might need, ah. Backup."

Adekoya let out a sharp laugh, then covered his mouth, pretending to cough.

Continuing to destroy the moment Martin felt like he and Jon were having, Jared took the opportunity to lean in and grab firm handfuls of his breasts, feeling them up in a vaguely explorative manner.

"I'll just. I'll sit down. I'll be right here, right?" Jon said, a little helplessly.

"Sure," Martin said, and laid back on the table. At least this way, he could turn his head and look at Jon, sitting awkwardly next to Adekoya with his hands pressed to his knees, rather than watching Jared's work.

"I said it'd be like a check up," Adekoya pointed out.

Martin sighed, and closed his eyes.

* * *

The thing was, Martin wasn't sure what Jared was even doing this time. He put his fingers into Martin's breasts and pinched and adjusted things, before having Martin sit up and tucking his hands through Martin's back, making Martin wince and his toes curl at the deliriously weird sensations.

Jon scooted his chair closer to take both of Martin's hands, which was comforting. "Does it hurt?"

"No. No? It just feels weird." His breath hitched as his body felt something bodies were never meant to feel. Turning his head, he asked, "What are you doing back there?"

Jared just shushed him and kept touching things.

He was laid down again, and kept his head turned to Jon. Jon, who very sweetly twined and untwined their fingers, pressing their palms together, digging his thumb into Martin's palm like a very small massage. It was a series of small tendernesses to focus on instead of whatever the hell Jared was up to.

Eventually, Jared took a break and conferred quietly with Adekoya, their voices pitched low. Adekoya carried a satchel with him and took out what looked like a hefty reference book, heavily dogeared with sticky notes jutting out of it all over. He opened it to a noted page and pointed something out to Jared.

Martin made a face and laid back down.

"Here," Jon said, and took off his jacket, folding it up and coaxing it under Martin's head.

"Thanks," Martin whispered, and had a deep sudden urge to kiss Jon. Shame about the circumstances. He could save it for later.

"Wish I could run to my car. I have that shock blanket."

"I'll survive," Martin said. "Don't leave."

Jon smiled and rested his forehead briefly against Martin's before sitting back again, keeping hold of one of Martin's hands.

When they were done talking amongst themselves, Jared stepped away from Adekoya and back to the table. "Sit up."

Groaning, Martin braced himself and pushed up, reaching up to rub his shoulder. "Wish you'd do something useful, like fix my shoulders instead."

Adekoya looked sharply up. "Sorry?"

"Shoulders. They ache when you're carrying around so much weight." His mouth pinched for a moment. "It's probably about half what the group talks about, the bloody backaches."

Blinking, Adekoya looked up at Jared, who looked back and shrugged. "Can fix that," Jared said. "Didn't know."

"What?" Martin turned to stare up at him. "Really?"

"Yeah." Bodily turning Martin back around, Jared put his hands on Martin, _in_ Martin. "Where's it hurt?"

"Uh, um? L-- lower? Then up the, the spine, I guess?"

Oddly enough, it had not occurred to Martin to make _requests._ But he supposed Jared and Adekoya wouldn't personally know the aftermath of what they did to people. He might as well get something out of this.

"Will this benefit all of the kine after?" Jon asked. "Isn't that how the, ah, the tags work?"

"The kine?" Adekoya looked contemplative. "What a lovely term for it."

"Martin came up with it."

"Good choice. And yeah, should do. Software patching, right? Or, I guess this is like hardware patching. Firmware? Eh." Shrugging, he went back to his book. "It's an imperfect metaphor."

It felt very sore back there when Jared finally let Martin onto his back, enough Martin's face pinched with pain.

Jared patted him. "Give it a bit."

"Sure," Martin said, and squeezed Jon's hand.

* * *

Everything was taking a while this time for some reason. Whatever Jared was doing was apparently subtle work he was less used to. There were frequent consults with whatever anatomy book they were working off.

Eventually, Adekoya left for a while, then returned with a brown paper bag of breakfast sandwiches for everyone. The break was appreciated, if utterly fucking surreal.

There was nothing but the soft crinkle of paper for a while, and chewing. More than anything, Martin wanted to go to bed, in his own flat, and sleep for twenty hours. Before that, he'd have to send out an update to the appropriate channel, so everyone was prepared for what was coming.

"I'm going to have to put petrol in on the way back," Jon murmured softly.

"That's fine."

"Do you want to go back to mine or yours?"

"Mine's closer. Want to sleep."

Jon nodded in understanding, taking another bite of his sandwich.

Jared had just crumbled up the wrapping of his food and tossed it in the bin, turning to wash his hands again when a loud creak came from beyond the room.

Everyone went still for a moment, and Martin could practically hear it when Adekoya looked at them and thought, _'That's not Sims.'_

"Stay," Jared said, and turned off the light in the room before stepping out.

In his wake, Adekoya hissed, "Did you call anyone?"

"No!" Jon said. "I— I— left a note for Elias before I came, but—"

"Elias wouldn't come himself," Martin said, frowning.

"No, absolutely not," Jon agreed. "Martin, come here, off the table."

They huddled in the corner, waiting for… whatever was to come. Maybe it was just a creak. Old buildings creaked sometimes.

Old buildings did not let out a shout and a solid slamming noise. There was a wood-on-wood sound, like a cricket bat hitting a wall.

Then, Jared walked back in, carrying Tim by one shoulder, lifting him just enough his legs couldn't find footing on the floor. He let out a furious noise, trying to dig his fingers into Jared's hand.

Martin's heart raced. "He— He— He's with the Institute, that's Tim, he's not a threat."

Jared flung Tim onto the floor with enough force he slid a meter. "Wants to be a threat. Not very good at it, though."

Tim hitched himself up on an elbow and swung his eyes around, wild and furious. "I— what the _fuck_ is going on here? I, I come here after you, and you're fucking having tea with the monsters?!" His eyes narrowed on Jon. "Are you in on all this? Fuck, how convenient, that's thrice Martin's kidnapped and you happen to be the one to find him?"

Jon's arms went rigidly tight around Martin. "No, I'm not— not _in on it!_ Christ, Tim, there's not a lot of resistance to be had here!"

Gripping the edge of the table, Tim hauled himself up, his focus almost entirely on Jon. "Your car's parked outside, did you call the police or even bring a weapon, Jon?!"

"No, I— You didn't see Martin's messages, it's not—"

"Oh, come on, Jon," Tim said with dripping sarcasm. "You've seen what this has done to him, don't give me that."

The white hot pulse in Martin's head got louder. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That was rather rude, I think," Adekoya said suddenly, standing.

Tim spun, fists clenched. "Rude? Oh, I'm sorry, am I being rude to the lunatics ruining the lives of hundreds of people? Damn, what an oversight in politesse, I'm so sorry." He showed his teeth. "Going to kill me? Reduce me to a boneless slop pile on the floor? Sacrifice me to the old King Asterion or what-the-fuck-ever you worship?"

"No," Adekoya said, and moved.

Tim was probably expecting a punch or a strike of some kind. He gasped and staggered when Adekoya simply pushed him, his back hitting the table with a loud metallic rattle.

Then, Adekoya grabbed Tim by the hair, hands a blur, and Tim let out a sharp, short scream. With a shove, he hit the ground again, and Adekoya stepped back with the same swiftness again.

Reaching into his pocket, Adekoya removed a green tag, and meticulously loaded it into his now-empty needle gun.

Realization dawned on Martin. He circled the table and dropped down by Tim, who lay there, eyes wide and almost feral as he sucked in gasps of air, both hands clasped over his right ear. "Oh, Tim."

"Let's finish up, J," Adekoya said, his perpetual good humor gone.

"Right." Hands cupped Martin under his arms and lifted him right off the floor, setting him back on the table.

Craning his head, Martin got eyes on Jon, unsure what to do.

Jon was pressed fully against the wall, one hand over his mouth, the other curled against the back of his chair. He look a heady mix of scared and guilty and completely unsure of himself. And his eyes were trained on the gun in Adekoya's hand.

That shook Martin more than anything.

* * *

(Opportunities like this did not come around every day, and Elias prided himself on seizing them when they did.

There was first the matter of Tim, who was changed, or changing. While getting to directly observe the process did appeal to Elias and his well-deep desire for information about the cows, he instead released Tim on compassion leave, giving him enough lead on his rope to stay away from the Institute for a while.

The shockwaves were clear through the archival staff, laid open and clear as though projected on their skulls. Sasha was suddenly scared, suddenly deeply frightened now that half of her team was changed. One could be an outlier, but two was a threat. She felt threatened, and wondered if she would be next, and just how far she would go to prevent that.

Martin clearly didn't know what to do. Some bundle of instincts demanded he see to Tim, to be close to his brethren. But with that option suddenly gone, he was distractable and unfocused, and often found himself staring at the chat of his little support group, the words not penetrating but the imagined presence of other of his kind comforting. More than once, Elias observed Martin like that, his mind rolling around in an uncertain manner and a low croon passing his lips. Theories formed in Elias' mind, the insatiable need to know the very essence of these creatures.

And Jon, of course, was little better. He hid it best, burying himself in his work, cataloging the cows and their locations, funneling the information from the support group and their handy little apps into beautiful spreadsheets, examining the shifts and changes, divining patterns from the figures. But it was with the meticulousness of a machine that already knew its roles and tasks. What Jon was thinking about was Martin, about his burning desire to follow Martin home, and the concern that filled him with. He should have been worried about Tim. He told himself sternly over and over that he was concerned about Tim. With the benefit of objective vision, Elias knew better: Jon was concerned about Martin being concerned about Tim. Functionally the same, but enough of a disconnect for Jonathan to agonize over, as if it _mattered._

And Tim. Oh, Tim was in a bad way. And doggedly, purposefully alone for it. His pride was an moat around him, keeping him from those who could help, even if he had enough trust to ask for the assistance.

It really was a delightful tangle of fear and guilt. It acted as a shroud for Elias, covering his exit as he left early Friday afternoon. No one took note of his absence, they were all so blind to anything beyond themselves.

Elias had a limited window. He didn't intend to miss it.

He found them squatting in a vacant house, the residence of some lawyer who was busy with his mistress and second home in Australia. In the owner's absence, the two talented vagabonds where playing house. Hopworth took in a football game from the leather sofa while Adekoya pleased himself raiding the pantry and freezer to make the most ridiculously decadent meal he could envision.

They left the door unlocked. So: Elias let himself in. No further than the foyer. He stood still as the two rounded on him and closed in.

"You Hargrave?" Hopworth asked, looming, reforming parts of his body to boost his height.

"No. The house is still yours. Mr. Hargrave remains in Perth." Elias inclined his head to them both, imbuing the movement with as much respect as he could. "Elias Bouchard. Head of the Magnus Institute."

Adekoya's looked incredulously at his partner. "What is with these people following us around?"

"A somewhat unfair statement," Elias pointed out mildly. "When you kidnap one, others tend to follow, wisely or not."

"We always put him back," Adekoya said. "We always put them _all_ back. When we're done."

"Of course," Elias said. "Your methods are admirable. In fact, I've found myself admiring them from afar for some time now." He smiled. "I thought we could chat."

"Or I turn you into the next cow," Hopworth said quietly.

"Or," Elias countered, a little forcefully, "we could collaborate. You want to spread the wonder of your new cows around the world. I am interested in helping."

Waving a hand at Elias, Adekoya said, "You don't strike me as the altruistic type."

"But I am the type who knows what's best for those around me." He bowed his head humbly. "This project of yours… I'd like to help guide it to fruition."

Hopworth looked down at Adekoya, clearly expectant. Even if he was not yet close enough to them to read their every thought and fancy, it was obvious this matter, the matter of _logistics,_ was squarely on Adekoya's shoulders.

"Seb," Hopworth prompted.

"You can come in and talk," Adekoya said, because Elias was _also_ a man dedicated to logistics, and like saw like. "I presume you're aware what we do with troublesome people?"

Elias took the liberty of removing his jacket, hanging it up by the door. "I'm certain that won't be necessary. After all, we want the same things."

"For the same reasons?"

"No. Not at all. But it won't matter," Elias assured them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and i'm STILL not up to the point where i can post the ridiculous porn i wrote. its very on brand for me. "oh i wrote this piece of porn. time to write a few thousand words of worldbuilding to set it up."
> 
> i'm currently an "essential retail worker" in the time of covid and the stress level is outrageous. so, time for some low-stakes kink fic. hopefully its fun. i guess there's one more part coming, and THEN. THEN!! the ridiculous porn.
> 
> I'm on tumblr @callmearcturus.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to Cuttooth for coming up with the bedrock of a scene in this (the jon-elias confrontation) and letting me adapt it for this fic. cuttooth please release ur fic in thie AU i'm beggin

Everything happened in discrete steps that, when examined together, held a pattern.

At first, it didn't really sink in. Elias asked Martin to come with him away from the Institute, to look at a location just a few blocks away. Despite the short distance, Elias insisted on being driven, and Martin was uncomfortable in the casual luxury of his private car.

But the building Elias brought Martin to seemed to be an old… school? Maybe hospital? There were large rooms with the windows covered in dark paper and tape, as well as smaller rooms that reminded Martin of being sent to the teacher's office more than anything.

"I'm unsure how exactly to arrange things," Elias said. "We could use the offices, refurnish them with beds, but then we'll only be able to house fifty visitors maximum. Now, if we applied a more dormitory style, and utilized the larger spaces, there would be less privacy but the residency would be… quadrupled or quintupled."

The floors were done recently, the wood panels sanded and resurfaced, almost too smooth under Martin's shoes. "I'm not sure what we're discussing actually?"

Elias' hand alighted to Martin's arm as he guided Martin down the hallway. "You mentioned about this before, a month ago? About the expense our visitors incur when they come to the Institute to see us."

He had. Martin was eternally keeping a close watch over the kinefolk's support group, trying to learn what people needed, how he could help. One recurring trouble mentioned was that traveling for a few days to London, to bloody Chelsea, wasn't cheap. Not everyone had someone local with a spare sofa.

"So this… this is some sort of boarding house?" Martin dragged his gaze over the bare walls with more interest.

"I've been thinking of it as a sort of halfway house," Elias mused. "A place for people to stay as they are guided into their new lives, a place to learn the new vital skills they'll require."

Wetting his lips with his tongue, Martin slowed to a halt and turned in a slow circle. "You want to, what? Buy the _building?_ It's three, four storeys?"

"But fairly narrow. It'll supply us with enough rooms for now."

"For _now?"_ Martin scoffed. Elias simply tilted his head at him with a quiet bemusement. "Do you expect this to… continue on? Hopworth and Adekoya can't just keep _doing this._ I mean, if they did, they'd— they're only two people, and there's a limit how much they can do!"

Elias pressed his fingertips together, hands splayed. "Perhaps. It is true, even at their most active, they can only set hands on so many people. But I am concerned _they_ might not be satisfied with that spread. And Jon did say they were working towards a method to aid the proliferation." He spread his hands, encompassing the building around them. "Best to be prepared."

"But this… is a building!" There was no poise in how Martin flapped his hands, but at some point Martin's sense of composure around Elias had started to erode in the face of all the other intimacies they were forced to share. "Can we just get a _building?"_

"I'll handle the finances," Elias soothed, resting both his hands on Martin's shoulders and guiding his hands to his sides, holding his wrists firmly. "There are some avenues available to us. I'll bring you up to speed when things are more concrete. Otherwise, do you think it'll work?" He looked around. "Dormitories with private milking rooms? Or private rooms with more communal milking areas?"

A flush flooded Martin's face. "I— I— I don't know."

His lips curved in a smile. "Well, you have the ability to pull a group-seeded opinion. Ask your fellows. Let me know what they say. But soon, please. I would like to get started, keep us ahead of this."

The entire outing was strange, and left Martin disquieted.

He did bring it up to the group. What sort of set-up they would prefer. Overwhelmingly, and somewhat to Martin's surprise, the consensus seemed to be that communal milking rooms would be less lonely. There was lingering frustration and trauma over handling milking alone, and Martin felt a pang for them.

Not everyone had a team to support them. Not everyone had a Jon, or a Sasha, or even an Elias.

As for Tim… well. He had never liked to help Martin with _that,_ even before being tagged himself. Even now, he didn't use the support group or the friendly little app that Martin was so proud of.

Anyway.

The gravity of the situation came for Martin two weeks later, when something unprecedented happened.

Martin knew other kinefolk on sight. The one that came in right before the informal end of day for the Institute was just as recognizable.

Except there was no ear tag.

Except, as far as Martin could tell, they had never crossed paths with Jared Hopworth. Jared, who according to Jon's tracking of statements, was in Canada at the moment.

Before even handing Jon the statement folder, Martin explained this in a hushed tone.

"What does this mean?" he asked.

Jon remained quiet for a moment, and pressed his hand against his cheek, sweeping slowly back into his hair, gathering it back from his face. "They intended things to… advance." He swallowed. "I'll speak to Elias."

"Do you think it's spreading?"

"I'll talk to Elias," Jon reiterated, and took the statement from Martin, clasping their hands together for a moment after. "Try not to worry."

Huffing out a breath, Martin said, "D'you think that's likely?"

"Try," Jon said, smiling faintly, then left the office quietly.

* * *

Upstairs, Elias' office was open, but the man himself was on the phone. Giving Jon an acknowledging nod, he gestured to the guest chair across his desk.

Sitting, Jon waiting while Elias continued to speak.

"I don't think it will be necessary. … For the time being, at least. Don't feel the need to rush back to London. … I don't _know,_ Peter. Whatever you would normally see to. It's not really my concern, and I have a lot on my plate." Elias looked at Jon with a fond, exasperated expression, a slight roll of his eyes. "No, I'm not upset, I'm simply very busy. Maybe next time you're landside. Ta-ta, Peter."

Drawing the phone away from his ear, he thumbed the call off with a sharp exhale. "Jonathan. Sorry for the delay. Some people simply cannot take a hint." His eyes narrowed at the screen. "Either through genuine or feigned obliviousness."

"Seems so," Jon demurred, not truly interested in whatever Elias was handling. "I just had a very concerning statement cross my desk." He set the folder down before expounding on the tale of Halley Newson, a student of the Royal Agriculture University who had undone a slow but unwavering change, finding her body altering to a form that by now the Institute knew well.

"No apparent run-ins with Hopworth," Jon said. "No periods of lost time that could potentially cover for such an encounter, but according to Martin she was…"

"Already a bovinated human," Elias said quietly, flicking idly through the pages of written notes. "This is undoubtedly what our enterprising duo were referring to. A method to expand the proliferation."

"Yes, but _how?"_ Jon asked desperately. "She didn't meet them, and nor did she somehow come across that damned artefact."

"Indeed." Elias steepled his fingers, and rested them against his mouth. "Then the only other method I could conceive of is the milk itself."

That didn't make sense. Jon blinked hard and shook his head. "I don't follow."

"Ms. Newson is situated close to a farmer's market, I believe." He dragged his fingers over the relevant sentence in the notes. "Perhaps she prefers to buy her milk there."

That _still_ didn't make sense. "What are you talking about? How—" His tongue coated with syrupy dread as he paused and selected his words. "How would she become exposed to the kine milk at a _farmer's market,_ Elias?"

"Because it's being sold there," Elias said blandly. There was a quiet, implicit and somewhat rude _'obviously'_ in his tone.

Jon's mouth dropped open as prickling shock washed over him.

"Not a lot," Elias went on in that specific way he had, all self-assured momentum that was quick to build inertia. "It seemed a terrible waste for us to just tip it down the drain each time, not when we suddenly had such a plentiful supply. When all the tests came back and showed how nutritious the milk was, and how it dodged such common intolerances so neatly, I reached out to some local suppliers for their advice on the topic. What is going on now is something of a market test, to see if the appeal is as broad as I hope." He leaned on his elbows, folded hands tucked almost daintily under his chin. "It's all above-board. We had some bovinated humans within a reasonable distance. As you know, we try to keep track of everyone best we can. A small team produced enough milk for the suggested starting sales."

"You cannot be serious," Jon exhaled hard, as if Elias' explanation had punched him in the stomach. "That's— you can't— why would you?"

Elias pursed his lips for a moment, as if puzzled by Jon's question. "Why wouldn't I? I admit Misters Adekoya and Hopworth are taking considerable and regrettable advantage of people, but it's hard to argue with their cause. And, if this is going to go on, if they will continue to spread this to everyone they get their collective hands on, then the Institute will _also_ continue to have people to care for, and for that, it behooves us to secure some independent income."

He said it so goddamn sensibly, Jon felt like reality itself was shifting around them. Right, yes, of course they would need finances for this ongoing project. His mouth worked silently for a moment as he gathered himself.

"Jon." Elias reached out and rested a hand on Jon's wrist. "This is something I've been working on with Martin as well. We've been taking care of him through his process, and I think privately between us, we can agree that he's much settled and arguably…" He seemed to pause to align his words. "Arguably, Martin has turned his trauma into a springboard for some measure of confidence. Watching him this past year has honestly been a wonder . But Martin has us. The other victims do not, and the needs of these people often exceeds what they're prepared for."

"Yes," Jon agreed, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. "Right, but."

"I'm looking to invest in new spaces where we can help each bovinated human for a longer period of time, assist them in coming to grips with their new abilities. I'm sure Martin mentioned the halfway house we'll be renovating."

"Yes, and— and that's an excellent idea, however—"

"Such measures," Elias pressed on, simultaneously giving Jon's wrist a brief squeeze, "are not cheap." Suddenly, Elias let go, and leaned all the way back in his seat, the fine leather chair rocking backward as he settled. "Do you think their existence will remain under wraps forever, Jon?"

That was a question Jon had been struggling with for some time. Softly, he said, "No."

"Nor do I." His voice was thick with sympathy. "For what it's worth, I think we are doing the best we possibly could be. I never anticipated shifting… frankly the _majority_ of our resources to a single project like this, but if we can establish an infrastructure before, god forbid, this entire thing breaks public?" He bowed his head solemnly. "Then we'll have done the best for these poor people."

"And this is how we do it?" Jon asked. "If your own suspicions about this statement are correct, then the milk itself is a proliferating agent for the bovination, the— the change."

"So far, one person? Out of the…" A sharper smile appeared on Elias' face. "Ah, well, the new milk has proven very popular in the few markets it's been made available in. So, in my estimation, this milk-based transmission is statistically low. After all." He turned his head enough to give Jon a very sly look. "You and I are not showing symptoms, now, are we? And I daresay we were the first converts."

Jon refused to be cowed— to be daunted by the burning truth. "Alright," he murmured. "You choose to see these as unfortunate casualties. I find that a bit callous."

"My attitude to these people is anything but callous." His eyes were very narrow on Jon's, holding his glare without contrition. "I could use your help, you know."

"My _help?"_

"Martin will be brought in on this soon enough, as the project has been almost entirely built on his dedicated work. And I daresay he would want to give input on it. But he can't do everything," Elias said. "You have been keeping record of everyone affected. I'd like to start bringing them back in for a follow-up. Those who are available or local, we'll invite first. Later, we can have a stipend ready to help the others travel back to see us."

"You want," Jon hazarded slowly as he fit the concept together in his own mind, "to invite these people back to, to get them to give you their milk?"

Elias' face pinched into a full grimace. "To discuss a _contract,_ Jonathan. One that will provide them with extra income, will allow them to have access to better milking facilities, and to better prepare us to help the next one to stagger into our Institute." He tutted chidingly. "None of us signed up for this, but I see no reason not to help these people."

Protests remained at the back of Jon's throat ready to be thrown in Elias' face.

One thing stopped him.

He could do it. Throw it in for the sake of decency and refuse to help. But regardless, Elias was doing this. If Jon didn't back him, then Jon would simply be excluded from the process. It would go on without him.

Or, he could keep a hand on the proverbial wheel, and at least see to it in his own way that things were handled properly.

Rather than saying that, or accepting the offer, Jon asked, "Do you think anyone will really be interested?"

"Yes," Elias said simply. "Care to wager on it?"

"No," Jon said, and stood from the chair. "I'll… reach out."

"Excellent," Elias said, fairly beaming. "I find after Martin himself, you have the best candor with these people. Your help is very appreciated, Jon."

Unsure what to say to that, Jon nodded and left.

* * *

Jon went home with Martin.

This wasn't very shocking, to the point it was barely discussed. Jon simply noted when Martin shut down his computer for the night and responded in kind, collecting his own coat and satchel, walking out as Martin pulled his soft knit cap down over his ears.

Upon noticing Jon standing there, Martin smiled softly, a fetching smudge of pink curling over his cheeks. "Ah, ready then?"

"Yes." And they walked out of the Institute together, giving it no further discussion as Jon boarded the train with Martin, standing next to him amid the fairly crowded car.

Taking a handkerchief from his inside pocket, Jon used it as a barrier as he reached up and gripped the handrail over his head. In short order, Martin curled his own hand over Jon's bicep, letting out a soft laugh.

Jon smiled back, pleased to just stand there and act as Martin's brace, looking down into his eyes during every shy glance he cast up at Jon.

Back at Martin's, there wereleftovers, the remains of their meal the night before when Jon had elected to bring ramen bowls. He had been late getting in, and elected to make up for it with some tonkotsu ramen. It had appeased Martin at the time, and heated up well now.

While Jon cleared the plates, Martin dressed down, soft sleep shorts that showed his knees and an oversized, well-worn shirt that once had a logo that had long since faded away. He looked comfortable, and Jon's chest felt warm.

For quite some time, Martin had never been comfortable with the changes to his body. He'd been drawn, drowning himself in the lumpiest jumpers he could, trying so hard not to draw attention. It had hurt to look at him, if only because it hurt him to be looked at.

Now, he glanced up with a smile as Jon rejoined him on the sofa for evening tea. Martin seemed happy.

God, Jon hoped Martin was happy. With every fiber of his being, he wanted Martin to be happy and unafraid. Especially (and selfishly) with him.

"Staying over?" Martin asked, as he did every night.

"Yes," Jon said, aware Martin wanted to hear it. "If you'll have me."

Leaning in, Jon kissed him, placing a hand atop Martin's thigh for balance.

This too was becoming a routine, unspoken but familiar. The leisurely push of his tongue in Martin's mouth, the nervous touch of Martin's hand on Jon's neck, the way they fell, capsized across the sofa. Even the little cry Martin let out when Jon laid down over him, the pressure against Martin's chest making him moan.

After getting his fill of Martin's mouth, Jon eased back, rising on his knees until he could skate his fingers under the hem of Martin's shirt. He often was unsure of himself in situations like this and rarely felt so drawn to a person. Honestly, for a long time Jon thought this form of intimacy was just not for him.

But something about Martin made Jon feel protective, like he wanted ownership of every inch of Martin's body, with the understanding he'd take care of it, of him. He wanted the responsibility.

Skimming Martin's shirt up, he drew it off before Martin repaid the favor, reaching up to unbutton Jon's shirt, to press a hand against his chest, over his heart.

They worked so well together, Jon thought wildly.

Doing this here rather than a bed was difficult unless you were willing to press in close. Luckily, Jon didn't mind. There was a thrill to having Martin bunched up under him, tucked into the corner made by the arm and the back of the sofa. He could strip Martin naked and crowd him in, keep him safe.

"Jon," Martin sighed, long and low, expanding one syllable to two or three as Jon pulled Martin's legs into place. This way, he could tuck his fingers down and into Martin as his thighs pressed around him.

"You're so soft," Jon marveled, a thought he'd had many times and had always managed not to voice.

Martin whined. "I know, I— I can't help it."

"No, no. I like it," Jon told him earnestly, kissing his chin. "I like you."

With a snort, Martin said, "I like you too, Jon."

His patience was infinite, and Jon was honored to have it.

Fucking Martin was easy. Every time it was easy. In this particular instance, Jon braced his arms on the sofa around Martin as he fluidly slid in and out of him, the rhythm steady as a pendulum. Martin, in return, cupped Jon's face, holding him there so their noses brushed. Having such a close view of Martin as his eyes drifted half shut, as he hitched a moan with each beat of Jon's hips, was perfect, and Jon let it become his world for the stretch of minutes until he came.

After, he was drowsy and sated, laid across Martin's body. Fingers stroked through Jon's hair, further lulling him. He felt completely safe and warm, buried in Martin and wrapped around him.

But he wasn't done by any means. That would be unconscionably selfish. His coordination was shot, but it wasn't difficult to shift around, curling a hand around Martin's skin, pulling and drawing one of his soft breasts against his face.

The grip on his hair tightened minutely. "Please, oh," Martin groaned, squirming under Jon's weight.

Jon shifted, eyes closed as he felt his way around by touch, his lips sweeping over flushed skin until the soft wrinkle of skin, the texture change as he found Martin's nipple. His tongue flattened against it, lips closing to make a seal as his fingers squeezed.

Thick sweetness filled his mouth as Martin sank under him, going boneless as Jon started to suck. His hands kept moving, stroking Jon's hair, his shoulders, his neck. Their bodies pressed together so closely, Jon could feel the tension unpinning from Martin.

The rumble in Martin's chest just started almost subsonic, just a hum against Jon's cheeks and mouth. As he swallowed and continued to squeeze Martin's teat, the sound deepened and flourished out into a long croon. "Mmmhmmmoooooo."

Jon dazedly thought Martin sounded so nice. He was so lovely, Jon wanted to sink into him, pillowed and cared for.

By the time he was too tired to go on, Martin was letting out a faint moo on every exhale, his head lolled to the side, a blush cast high over his cheeks.

It was tempting to just lay back down and go to sleep. But Martin's legs were still hitched around Jon's hips, and that would lead to disastrous pulled muscles if he didn't do something about it. Budging Martin awake didn't quite work, as Martin seemed deep in his own heady lethargy. But he listened when Jon murmured, "To bed, then you can go back to sleep, come on."

* * *

In the morning, Martin made tea while Jon set out bowls and prepared cereal. He scratched at his stubble as he yawned, grabbing the glass bottle from the fridge.

Martin's eyes flicked to the bottle, then up at Jon, a slight curve to his lips.

"Hm?" Jon hummed, weaving his way along the counter to gently bump his hip into Martin's.

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it, taking the bottle from Jon to splash in their teas. "Are you going to shave? You've got some salt and pepper coming in."

"Before we go, sure." He reached across Martin to grab spoons. "Was that what you were going to ask?"

"Ah. Well." Martin lifted his mug to his lips, a transparent stalling tactic. Jon used the pause to tap his cereal flakes into the milk and shove a spoonful into his mouth. "It doesn't… bother you?"

Chewing, Jon swallowed. "Does what bother me? I've been going prematurely grey since I was in my late teens, Martin. I've had time to come to terms with it."

"The— No, Jon, I like your hair, it's very handsome. I meant the milk?"

It was remarkable, the things you got used to. Jon peered down at his pleasantly pale cup of Yorkshire and his bowl. "I… It's… " He inhaled deeply. "Does it bother you?"

Eyes narrowing into a squint, Martin peered at Jon. "Don't turn it around on me."

"I just think your opinion means a good deal more than mine does on the matter," Jon said.

"But I'm asking you."

He didn't look away, clearly waiting for Jon to get ahold of himself and give him an answer.

All he could do was hope it was the right one.

"It bothered me a long time ago," Jon said. "But mostly from the sense of… cultural taboos and the fear of what had been done to you. I don't like— I never want you to think I don't…" He lowered his eyes to his tea. "Don't think the world of you."

A very rich blush spread over Martin's face as he slowly took Jon's hand. "Oh. That's… I don't mind hearing that." He exhaled hard. "I thought— I always felt it was very kind of you to look past the— the—"

"Don't even say it," Jon cut in, and pressed his forehead against Martin's temple. Softly, Martin leaned on Jon in turn, smiling. "I don't mind. I… like parts of it. Is that a weird thing to say?"

"I don't know what's weird anymore," Martin admitted, and eased back, reaching for his own mug. "But you make it feel… less weird."

Unable to resist, Jon leaned in and kissed his temple.

* * *

("We have our first positive case of bovination-by-ingestion," Elias said, his fingers plucking at the narrow threads of the Newton's Cradle on his desk, drawing three spheres back to release. They collided against their fellows, and three more swung out, rising and falling again to collide again. "It strikes me as a very slow process."

There was a sigh down the line. "Okay, but it can't come on fast?" Adekoya said. "If you picked out a new type of crisps from the shop and after two bags it dramatically changed you, well, you wouldn't buy them again, would you?"

Distantly, not directly into the phone, someone else said, "Depends."

"Well, not everyone's that adventurous, J."

"I'm simply concerned at the rate of propagation," Elias said.

"The rate's fine. You want to see more results, then you expand the market faster. We're handling things on our end."

"Introduction of the product has to be done carefully. If it goes awry, we likely won't have another chance."

"I would argue," Adekoya said, "that it's a good thing the bovination process is slow, then."

It wasn't an incorrect statement. "Are you of the opinion that we should be going public soon?"

The hum over the line was tinny from distance. "Before year's end, I think. What are you waiting on over there?"

The cradle swung, tapping musically. Elias caught his own reflection intermittently as it moved. "A great number of factors are in play. We've renovated a building to house the cows between contact and contract. Martin is integral to keeping them all docile and willing to learn, and I cannot risk losing his loyalty. The entire project will be a wash."

"Uh huh."

"Keeping the current production line discrete is difficult. I can't bring in dairy manufacturers at the rate I would like." He let out a long breath through his nose, and idly flipped through some documents on his desk. Marketing designs, label ideas, color schemes and proposed iconography. Nothing ready yet, nothing concrete. "I have more cows than people who can be trusted to use them."

"You're very admired-not-feared, aren't you?" Adekoya mused.

"Oh?"

"Machiavelli. It's always better to be loved or admired than to be feared."

"If one is forced to choose," Elias added, familiar enough with the adage.

"Yeah, well. You could be both. We could send along something to help." There was a different directionality to Adekoya's voice as he asked, "How many do we have?"

In the background, Hopworth asked, "Of what?"

"The tags. Can we ship a box back to London?"

"Hrm. Could do."

Fingers curling, Elias considered it. What could he do, with his own way to… _initiate_ new cows unto the world. "That would help."

"Great. It's mailing from… whatever state we're in. I could never keep all of America straight in my head. So give it time to arrive."

"Excellent. That should act as a way to manage the herd."

"Heh," Hopworth grunted. "Cute."

"I do have an idea for our… debut, so to speak. Something to ensure the public reveal happens on our schedule," Elias said, and then outlined his ingenious plan.

Adekoya agreed. Hopworth sounded _excited_ for the prospect.

There was work yet to do, but the plan was coming together well enough.)

* * *

The halfway house was busier than Martin had ever expected. When he was just meeting with people for a day or two to take down their statements before they returned home, the stream of new kinefolk had seemed sporadic.

Now, Martin walked through the halls of the Magnus Institute's auxiliary research centre and paused by the common room on the third floor, marveling at the sight.

The common room was lit by comfortable orange lights and filled with curved seats and low tables and floor pillows. It was decadent to laze around in. From the open archway, Martin observed plenty of kine enjoying the space. Five or six of them, Martin had met long before, returned to London to meet again with Jon and Elias. Another half dozen were new, recognizable in how they hadn't quite… _filled out_ yet. Which would come with time.

One of the older kine spotted Martin and gave a wave, doing some eyebrow movements that clearly meant to ask if Martin wanted to join them.

And it was tempting, to find a spot on a cushion to sprawl out, listening into the overlapping, quiet conversations going on until he dozed off.

But Martin shook his head, waving back. No, he was busy.

Walking further along, Martin came up to the prescribed room, one of the few private milking rooms on this floor. Steeling himself, he turned the handle and let himself in.

"Elias," he said evenly.

Elias turned, pivoting on a heel. "Martin. Wonderful to see you. How has the day gone? Adjusting well?"

Martin hung up his bag by the door. "Fine, I suppose. I was showing some of the new kine how the milking works. That's always— it went as well as one could hope."

"Always better when you're there to assist," Elias said pleasantly.

"Right." He stared at Elias. "So, what is it? I was hoping to head out soon."

"I won't keep you from Jon long." He said it so damned casually. Martin flushed, unsure what to say, if he should say anything. Apparently not, as Elias went on. "I've brought something along that I'd like you to try. It's been frightfully difficult not to tell you about it until now."

"That's ominous."

Elias' teeth were gleaming as he grinned at Martin. Without responding, he turned, and pulled a garment bag off the table, walking to the middle of the room to drape it over the saddle there.

With caution aforethought, Martin stepped slowly in. "What's that?"

"A culmination of sorts." He unzipped the bag down the length. "I'm pleased to help our friends with milking and resources, but I feel we might be overlooking a rather mundane necessity."

What Elias brought was an outfit. It looked like somewhat standard office wear: a pressed button-down shirt with dark trousers.

But there was also something that at first glance seemed to be a vest, until Elias slid it from the hanger, and, no, it was too low cut for that. The neck was a deep scoop, and instead of buttons down the center, there appeared to be laces along the right side.

Elias slid the clean shirt free as well, and held it out. "If you would, Martin. Everything off, brassiere included."

"What is this for?" Martin asked, confused.

"Like I said, a mundane necessity. I know you've been in a position to suffer for fashion, so to speak, as well as everyone else in your group. I'm hoping this might be one possible alternative." He extended the shirt further. "Please, Martin." His grin softened into a kinder smile. "I've been ever so eager for these to be ready."

"Oh, _fine,"_ Martin groused, because he was easy to anyone who asked nicely.

Shirt and bra off, Martin took a moment to rub at his chest. There was always a soreness after taking the villainous strappy contraption off. Then, he took the clean white shirt and shrugged it on, starting to button it up.

It didn't look like it on the hanger, but the shirt was cut to give him room for his breasts. Too many shirts had been discarded from Martin's closet because the way his teats stretched the fabric around the buttons, a little peeky hole between each one that refused to lay flat. Not like this shirt.

"Huh," Martin said as he looked down at himself.

"Now, this. Let me help with the bustier." Elias tugged the laces loose on the black not-vest before helping Martin into it.

The neckline frankly wasn't a neckline at all; it pressed firm against his breasts at first, until Elias reached his hands in with casual familiarity and lifted each one up and through the gap. Situated so, he retightened the laces along Martin's side, and the entire _bustier_ came together, snug against Martin's sides and supporting his annoyingly ample chest.

"Too tight?" Elias asked.

"Um. Hm. No?"

"Breathe in deep. Any pinch?"

Martin obeyed, taking stock. "No pinch, nothing. It's…" He stroked his hand along the dark weave. It was denser than it seemed, and held him in nicely. Everything felt _fitted_ in a way Martin had never experienced before. He hardly owned anything tailored so closely to his body.

Elias thumbed the straps over Martin's shoulders. "Better weight distribution, a small amount of boning to help your posture." He continued to smile, blatantly pleased. "Much better than your collection of jumpers."

He didn't know what to say, so just nodded softly, staring down at himself.

"And I thought this might be better for milking sessions when you might not want to get fully undressed." Reaching out, Elias undid the top buttons of the white shirt, sliding his hand in to touch the warm skin underneath. "You can just unbutton and handle it from here. And the shirt has a wicking layer, in case of mishaps."

It was unexpectedly thoughtful. Martin swallowed. "Thought of everything."

"I tried." His hands landed firmly on Martin's shoulders. "I've been very impressed with your progress, Martin. I thought it might be helpful to give you a way of looking professional. Something that doesn't hide you." He tucked two fingers under Martin's chin. "You should turn heads."

"I already turn heads," Martin muttered tartly.

"Now, for the right reasons." Elias let go, and stepped back, crossing his arms and looking Martin over. "Ask Jon when you return home. If you won't hear it from me, maybe you'll hear it from him."

"Is this an elaborate way to get me to stop being upset about the— the milk thing?" Martin asked.

Because he was, obviously. He'd learned from the other kinefolk when Elias started to pursue some of the earlier tagged people for _production agreements._ Contracts and arrangements, asking kine to get on the saddle and make milk to sell.

Martin had been unhappy.

Elias had been _prepared,_ predictably enough. Had a whole pitch and presentation ready for Martin, as if he'd been waiting for Martin to find out and come to him.

Martin was still unhappy. Not enough to upend the whole project, because _finances_ and _making sure we can care for your fellows, Martin_ and _we want to be on the ground floor of this._ But still.

Elias fairly pouted at that. "Martin. I'm a fan of the aesthetics. I'm insulted you would suspect ulterior motives of me."

Martin sputtered into laughter; Elias smirked.

"Let me take care of you before you go?" Elias suggested, removing the garment bag and patting the empty saddle.

"Sure," Martin said, and set to taking his trousers and pants off.

The saddle lowered as Elias moved the lever along the side, dropping enough for Martin to stand astride it. As he levered the other way, it rose under Martin, catching him and carrying him up into position.

Now, there was a padded bar ready for Martin, the perfect height for him to fold his arms across, resting his cheek down.

There was the familiar sound of gloves snapping onto Elias' hands. Martin let his eyes shut as he waited.

Under the bar, Elias parted Martin's shirt further, his hands warm even through the gloves as he drew Martin's teats free and cupped them. Thumbs pressed into Martin's nipples, and he let out a low moo, the aching weight in his teats becoming more urgent from the attention.

"Such lovely work," Elias murmured vaguely as he applied the cups, letting gentle suction fix them into place. There was just enough force to hold them in place. But when Elias squeezed and stroked down one teat, milk splashed out, into the cup.

He needed more, and was obliged when Elias turned the milker up, the skin around each cup puckering as more milk spilled out of Martin. Each tug felt like its own release, a grand relief of burden from Martin's body as he finally got what he craved.

His eyes were peacefully closed as he sighed and crooned and rocked slowly against the saddle. His teats swung slightly, and the extra tugging felt good.

Two fingers pressed against his lower lip; he opened without hesitation, flicking his tongue against the tips of Elias' gloves. As he did, something wider parted his lips, a firm shaft gliding in.

Blinking his eyes dazedly, Martin watched as Elias fed a phallus into his mouth, cupping Martin's jaw to steady him as the smooth toy urged his mouth open further. He moaned, slightly confused, until the edge of the toy bumped against the soft flesh at the back of Martin's throat.

A strobe of shivery pleasure broke over him, and he moaned, swallowing around the toy until it nudged against the same spot again. A flood of tingly warmth rolled over him, and his toes curled.

"Very good, Martin," Elias said, taking the straps at the base of the gag and wrapping them around Martin's head, buckling them. The toy locked into place, just barely rubbing against the incredible spot that made Martin incoherent and shuddering with sensation. "Let's see how much you have today." And his hands disappeared under the bar to stroke encouragingly at Martin's teats.

"Mmmmmhmmmmm." His lowing was muffled by the gag.

"You seem very full," Elias said quietly as he continued stroking. "Have I not been taking good enough care of you?"

Head lolling heavily onto his arms, Martin let out another muffled moo. He felt so good when he was taken care of.

"Perhaps you're becoming too good of a cow," he went on to himself. Certainly not to Martin, who could barely hear him over the thrumming feeling taking over. "You produce more milk than any of the others, did you know that? Almost every day, you log more volume than the rest of your kind." Elias squeezed tightly, and Martin jerked as more milk poured out of him. "Such a very good cow. What would I do without you?"

He stayed on the saddle for a long time, pumping out what seemed to be an impossible amount. When he finally ran dry, Martin dozed, feeling Elias wipe his chest down with a damp towel before buttoning his shirt back up.

Then, the buckles loosened, and Martin's mouth hung open as the gag was removed. Immediately, he felt bereft, empty, licking his mouth idly as he relearned the shape.

Elias' nails were blunt as they dragged through his hair. "Feel better?"

Nodding slowly, Martin put his head back down. He'd be ready to go in just a minute. As soon as the satisfaction stopped vibrating through his body.

* * *

(When the time came, Elias turned to Sasha.

They met away from the Institute, at the garden roof on top of the halfway house, late at night. Around them, the city's lights illuminated their discussion well enough, as well as imparting a sense of superiority. It was the perfect oil for the wheels here; when someone was afraid, some semblance of control was the leverage they required. Control, real or imagined.

Sasha kept her finger off the trigger as she examined the needle gun. There was a tremor in her arms as she held it, as if it were very heavy, but her grip itself was steady.

"I don't know we should be doing this," she said, her voice mild and reasonable even as her eyes remained fixed on the needle gun. The green tag hanging from it, off centre, had four digits.

"No one should be doing this, Miss James," Elias explained sorrowfully. "In a perfect world, these things would have never happened at all." He stepped closer and bowed his head respectfully. "But we don't live in a perfect world. You know that more keenly than most."

She pressed her teeth to her bottom lip briefly. "Then why this?"

"Because with some direction, I think— I _hope_ we can make it a _better_ world, at least." He sighed deeply. "Nothing destroys like chaos. Ergo…"

"We impose some order," she murmured softly. And there it was, that _'we'_ Elias so hoped to hear.

She opened her hand and looked at the half dozen tags he'd given her. Then, Sasha pocketed them and turned, facing Elias head on for the first time since he'd explained the plan. "Right then. Who should we tag? Who's next?"

Elias carefully kept his face dour, resigned to their task, even as the satisfaction of work well-done unfurled in his ribcage. "I have a list. I'd love your opinion on it. Shall we step inside? I installed a latte machine in the office.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "arc what'd you do with your surprise three day weekend from retail hell"  
> well, i wrote 6800 words of more ridiculousness. because Elias being magnanimously wicked is just a delight to write.
> 
> there are to my knowledge two (2) side stories in the works for this AU. one centers on Tim and his... struggles to adjust to the hucow life. the other is about Jon and Martin, and specifically Jon experiences some................. side effects to all this. look out for those when they appear. I know I will. /shakyeyes emoji
> 
> /stretches. anyway uh i guess ONE MORE plot-building part of this and THEN the denouement of porn. i promise its wrapping up.
> 
> ~~all of this, all of it, because Elias got a little too involved in his new hobby. and if it gets him some financial independence from the Lukases and Fairchilds, that's just a bonus.~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **THIS CHAPTER ASSUMES YOU READ CUTTOOTH'S[CARE & FEEDING](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743006),** which takes place between the last chapter and this one. It's utterly fantastic, Jon-focused, and has some peak jonmartin romance. Please give it a read if you haven't already, it'll be referenced here.

More than the stares and the strangers asking him inappropriate questions on the tube and the stress of keeping up with the rising population of kine, Martin hated the news.

He shouldn't have read any of it. Not when they were out for lunch certainly. But coffee shops always had papers available, and Martin helped himself to one while Jon stood in line to get them drinks and something to nibble.

> **UDDERLY SHOCKING! DID GMOS CAUSE THE HUCOW MUTATION? WHO IS SAFE?**
> 
> **‣ Hucow population has boomed, spread from London to the border (or further?!)**
> 
> **‣ Mutation might correlate with increase of "safe" GMO products in shops**
> 
> **‣ Bovinated Sec of Housing returns to work, is the Cabinet at risk?**
> 
> **‣ Which foods are putting your children at risk?**
> 
> SINCE THE EMERGENCE of these strange and buxom new mutants has become public knowledge, experts have learned the possible causes. As trusted neighbors and long-time friends change into these hucows ("bovinated humans" or "kinefolk"), how can you avoid the same fate?
> 
> "There's been no official movement on the cause from the Health Department," says Karen Whittaker-Symthe, an expert in statistics, "but there is a clear pattern. As these imported GMO products appear in our shops and groceries, the appearance of the bovinated humans follows. Anecdotally, we know many of these [people] bought these potentially tainted products."
> 
> The known number of hucows in Britain has now exceeded 10,000, though exact numbers have not been revealed by the Magnus Kinefolk Commune nor the government. Multiple requests for information have been denied.

"Too right, you pricks," Martin muttered, turning over the paper in disgust.

When Jon returned to the table, he was carrying multiple plates, his lips pursed in a worried moue as he balanced everything across his arms. The saucer he set down next to Martin was hazelnut latte. The top of was foamy mass, the brown and white swirled together to make a tulip.

"Aw," Martin cooed, grinning. "Jon, you didn't need to do that."

"I didn't do it, point of fact," Jon said, setting the other plates down and sitting. He pointedly ignored the seat across the table to instead take the one at Martin's elbow. "But I did leave a substantial tip to the barista for their efforts." There was a plate of scones to share, with a little ceramic ramekin of clotted cream. "Anything to keep you from your— brooding."

Taking one scone, Martin split it to spread cream on. "That's not what you were going to say."

Jon jerked one should in an apologetic shrug. "No. I was going to say 'sulking,' but it seemed overharsh." He stirred his tea with a metal spoon, and it did not once clink against the sides. "You know better than to expect anything from the _Sun._ "

"But it's still being said about—" Martin inhaled, lowering his voice. "About the kine. So I should know it."

"Spurious lies, and a centerfold of Linda the barely legal kine on page three," Jon said.

"As if they'd use the right term." He glowered into his drink.

"There is no reality in which knowing uninformed and ignorant opinions about you is a _good_ thing," Jon said with all the air of a secondary school teacher. "What about the profile in _The Telegraph?"_

Martin pulled a face, but Jon was right. Since the existence of kinefolk when public, it wasn't _exclusively_ bad. There were of course seedy and awful things said and written about them, some so vicious it felt like Martin was regressing to when this all began, with the horrible things he'd thought about himself and his body as the changes set in.

But there was also enough stories that actually talked to the kine, that tried to get the facts, that so far it was… going fine. Granted, for the first week after the news chevrons flared _NEW MUTATION FOUND IN THOUSANDS OF HUMANS_ , Martin had been a wreck, but.

Now, Martin took a bite of his properly smeared scone and breathed in the smell of coffee beans. It was getting warmer, this time of year, and he'd left his jacket back at the Institute. It was harder to hide. But in a bustier and a light linen shirt, it was also more comfortable.

Jon had liberated one of the spare newspapers from the stand by the door and was doing the puzzles: crossword, sudoku, jumble. The quiet between them was comfortable too.

Their table was situated around the corner of the bar from the cashier. When a young woman walked up to give her order, she was well audible over the inoffensive instrumental playing over the speakers. "Ah, 'cuse me, do— do you carry NuMilk yet?" she asked.

Silently, Jon's eyes flicked up to Martin's.

"Not yet, sorry," the barista replied. "We had it for 'bout a week, haven't been able to get it back in yet."

The woman let out a quiet sigh. "I'll take soy, then," she conceded before placing her order.

Holding Jon's gaze, Martin raised his eyebrows, and took a sip of his latte. Was there a difference in the taste, or was it all in his head?

With a low, tuneless hum, Jon returned to the crossword, his ankle under the table pressed against Martin's.

* * *

Sometimes they were called kine.

Sometimes they were called _bovinated humans,_ to Martin's absolute and vocal distaste. _Bovinated,_ what an affront to the English language, the sort only the medical field could come up with. In the support group, there was a widespread agreement to always push _kine_ and _kinefolk_ anytime they were interviewed.

Still, the more inelegant term lingered. Martin dreaded to think how much worse things would be if they hadn't prepared. Or, 'prepared' made it sound like any of them knew this would happen, which was adamantly not the case. Elias was preternaturally gifted in having secondary and tertiary and auxiliary plans, but how could any of them predicted an minister would get tagged?

It had blindsided everyone, especially Jon, who claimed he was _certain_ Adekoya and Hopworth were in Canada at the time. But what was done was done.

"We'll have to be swift," Elias had said, as they watched the BBC News report from the living space at the boarding house. "To prevent the general public and so-called experts from endangering anyone." His hand had been solid and warm against Martin's back. "We have the numbers and the knowledge."

"I am _not_ going on telly for you," Martin had said immediately, the fear spilling out of his mouth the moment the idea occurred to him. The bright lights, the cameras, the people _looking_ at him, it was too much to even imagine, felt like swallowing ice.

"Not even to protect them?" Elias had mused. "No, I wouldn't want you widely known either. But coordinating some kine to speak to the press shouldn't be terribly difficult. There are so very many of you now." His thumb had just barely brushed between Martin's shoulder blades before he stepped away. "But we need to get started immediately."

For a week, Martin had barely spoken to any human face to face, locked up in the boarding house office or sitting at home, chatting with those willing to help, coaching them. Jon had similarly run himself ragged, turning his reams and reams of data into reports that could be used to explain, to teach, to enlighten.

Elias had managed everyone, and handled his own meetings besides, leaving for hours at a time to return with more direction, more ideas for them.

It was exhausting and stressful and for some time Martin's milking sessions were an object of annoyance and euphoria. Finally, a chance to stop thinking about everything. But it was always time away from his desk.

For that week, Martin and Jon slept in the boarding house, because the commute from their apartments to the office were too far. When they genuinely just could not keep awake, they retreated to an empty room, an empty bed, and slept sprawled across each other.

Eventually, at what seemed like long last, Martin woke up and the first thing on his docket was interviewing new kine.

And that was how things returned to normal. Such as it was.

* * *

Elias was not the sort of person who took the tube anywhere. The idea of Elias on a bus was honestly a little mind-melting. When he had to go anywhere, it was in a sleek black car with a privacy screen.

Being alone with Elias used to set Martin on edge. At some point, that had evaporated into… this, their mix of contention and mutual understanding and shared goals. It was functional.

"You haven't said anything yet," Elias pointed out mildly, after several minutes of cool silence.

Martin at the moment was typing to Jon, _finally omw home._ "Hm?" He sent the message with a tap, then looked over at Elias. "Were we talking?"

He had a particular smile, thin lipped and indulgent. "Not formally, but I always eagerly await your verdicts on these things. Did you like the facility?"

There was some milk magnate who was hoping to set up another NuMilk farm that had asked Elias to come and see. Which meant Martin had to come to see.

He had feared it would be like… a factory farm. But more than anything, it reminded Martin of the boarding house, with communal milking rooms and spaces for the kine to relax between sessions. The amenities were nice. The assistant who led the tour even showed him the soft robes that kine could presumably use when at work.

Martin folded his arms under his chest, looking at his own faint pout in the window reflection. "I think if this is going to be a thing, people wanting to collect the milk, we need guidelines. A set of rules for how to do it, what to pay them for their time— definitely _time,_ not volume, or I bet it would get hairy quickly."

"Well, you are the de facto leader of the presumed union," Elias informed him cheerfully. "We can discuss formalizing some regulations. Having control of the industry standard is helpful to us."

Martin's nose wrinkled in the reflection. Beside him, Elias chuckled softly. "It is for the best, Martin."

"For who?" he asked sourly.

"For the kine, for you, for me," Elias answered immediately. "Have I not been forthright with that?"

"Are we nearly back?" It was petulant to dodge the question, but also it was late, and Martin was tired and eager to get home.

"Of course, you'll be on your way soon. How is the new flat treating you and Jon?"

He didn't turn to glare but it was a near thing. Yes, he and Jon had gotten a new flat. Together. They had agreed not to mention it at work, but obviously Elias found out anyway. Perhaps when they submit their change of address forms to the Institute. Anyway, Martin sighed softly. "It's fine. We'll go over regulations soon? _Before_ letting any of these people have contact information for the kinefolk?"

"Obviously, Martin." Elias smiled. "That information is private, nearly sacrosanct."

"Right," Martin said, and settled it for the rest of the drive. At least it was him, he thought. At least he could protect the others.

* * *

Their flat was situated in the center of a squat brick-facade building about four blocks from the Tube station. The wheelchair ramp up to the doors was framed in iron fencing with that almost blue-green patina, bent and curved into flowing circles that made Martin feel unduly fancy. Even more so, the elevator with the accordion door, which Martin adored, much to Jon's teasing.

"Of course you'd prefer a narrow, noisy, old-fashioned relic to something safe and modern," he had chided Martin when they were touring places.

"I like you, don't I?" Martin had replied, and leaned up on his toes to kiss Jon's cheek.

Tonight, Martin was humming to himself as he let himself into their (!!!) new flat, locking up behind, presuming they were done for the night.

"I'm home! Sorry, Elias always takes up so much of my bloody time, but we were talking about the—" Martin sang out as he hung up his jacket and started to unzip his bustier, only for the song to get choked in his throat as he walked through the short landing and into the living area.

They had guests. Jon was sitting in the rolley desk chair, his shirt off, with Jared Hopworth's hands examining him, wide palms curving around his shoulders.

Adekoya stood nearby in a straight black longcoat, hands in his pockets. He turned to look at Martin as he entered. "Hey there— whoa." He let out a low whistle. "Look at you. That's a beautiful fit there."

"Jon," Martin called.

"I'm fine," Jon replied quickly, blinking his eyes open to meet Martin's. "I— I'm alright. They've not hurt me."

Adekoya swatted Jared's shoulder. "J."

With an annoyed grunt, Jared turned away from Jon and looked at Martin. Immediately, he grinned. "Very hot."

Fucking hell. Martin flushed all over. "What are you doing here this time? How did you even know we were here, it's a new apartment!"

"We have our sources," Adekoya said vaguely. "It's check-up time! Also there's something new Jared wanted to try." He jerked his head towards Jon. "But seems your beau here is showing a bit."

"That was the intention, wasn't it?" Jon asked sharply. "For exposure to the milk to perpetuate the spread?"

"Yeah. Obviously." He turned to Martin again. "If you wanna get into something more comfortable, that's fine."

"Did you tag the minister?" Martin asked, fingers curling into fists.

"No," Jared said shortly. "Careful, cow."

Martin's nostrils flared as he took a deep, calming breath. Right. He unzipped his bustier and walked into the bedroom to undress. There didn't seem any point in putting on much, so he pulled on boxers and a tired old henley that luckily fit around his chest.

He returned quickly, not wanting to leave Jon alone with the dynamic groping duo for long. Already, Jared was giving Jon a firm pat on the head, a gesture Martin recognized easily.

"Am I done?" Jon asked.

"Hrm. Want them bigger?" Jared asked, making crude grabby gestures towards Jon's chest.

"No, thank you," Jon said. "I would have to drastically change my wardrobe, for one." He pulled his shirt back on over his head, covering the soft if small swell of his own chest. His eyes found Martin's. "Well, I… believe you're up."

"Great." He did his best to square off against Hopworth, standing straight and tipping his head back (and back and back…) to look him in the eyes. "What mad idea do you have this time?"

Jared grinned. "You'll be asleep for this one. Won't hurt."

That was not reassuring at _all._ Apparently Jon agreed, stepping close and taking Martin's hand.

Adekoya sat on the sofa with a loud sigh. "Do we have to do this every time?"

"Excuse me, have you been made into kine?" Martin shot at him. "It doesn't look like it."

His lips twisted into a sulk as he suddenly took out his phone and found something fascinating to do to occupy himself.

With a bellow's sigh, Jared walked over and bodily lifted Martin up from the floor, ignoring his yelp and the way he clutched at Jon's hand. Raising him up, Jared held Martin at eye level.

"I'm gonna take care of you," Jared said. "Ready?"

He gripped his ire tight for a while, holding Jared's stare, trying to imbue his glare with solemn anger while his feet were swinging well off the ground.

After a moment, Jared started swaying to and fro, and Martin couldn't handle it.

"Fine, just— let's get it done. I wanted to have a hot bath and a sleep, and you're in the way."

Nodding, Jared gently set Martin back down, keeping a firm hand against his back to hold him as he touched Martin's face.

There was the horrible, strange alien press of the Boneturner's touch against (inside) his skin, and then Martin's consciousness slipped away.

* * *

(Elias settled in Jon's chair. The archives were quiet and dark. It was late enough even the cleaning staff were nearly finished, wrapping up their route up on the top floor. The lower levels and especially the basement were utterly still and silent but for Elias' own breathing.

The chair was frightfully uncomfortable. Elias found a small round pillow situated to support his lumbar, and scowled. He would have to put in an order for a new chair. Jon would do damage to his spine if he continued to use this faulty contraption.

With a terse sigh, Elias opened the top drawer of the desk with his key and dragged his fingers along the next, dated folders that lived inside. As expected, Jon had finished with the past week's data and packed it away into a navy folder.

Laying it on the desk, Elias flipped it open and swiped his thumb along the blade of his thumb, flicking through pages. There were print outs of everything; Jon worked on his computer, but seemed to find satisfaction in hard copies of his finished work.

The list of new members of the kine community was four pages long. Elias separated it from the others to peruse.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Checking it, Elias found a new text message waiting for him.

_Adekoya: Starting with 23. Wasn't happy about it._

That was unsurprising. As Martin became more inured to his importance in the grand scheme of things, he'd certainly grown a steel spine. Elias chose to find it charming. In truth, it was helpful to have keen eyes on the cows to ascertain their needs and guide them. He'd proven invaluable.

 _He's quite stubborn,_ Elias replied. Then added in another message, _This will be the extra markers, correct?_

 _Adekoya: Yeah Jared's excited for it. Tail will be one and done, other will grow in gradually._  
_Adekoya: Any requests_ _  
_ Adekoya: ?

Did he need anything else from this… check-up? Elias set his phone down as he considered it, finding Jon's handwritten notes alongside the kine testimonials. It was sweet, how invested Jon became in their little anecdotes and complaints.

The change was subtle at first, but a chill rolled across the floor, curling around Elias' ankles and slowly creeping up his legs as he went through the papers.

Continuing to sift through data, Elias listened carefully. There was a silence beyond silence, as if the air was ceasing to move beyond his immediate radius, an unnatural pall falling over everything beyond the office door.

Picking up his phone, Elias tapped back, _Apologies, I have guests. But if Mr Hopworth has time, I would enjoy him increasing the softness of the cows' skin._

_Adekoya: The peach-fuzz texture right? Not human skin softness?_

Elias fired back a thumbs up emoji before setting his phone back down. "You're finally back ashore," he said out loud.

The cold thickened into fog, and that fog rose into the vague form of a man.

"What brings you back to London?" he asked lightly as the colors faded in and described the shape of Peter Lukas by degrees.

"You returned the last cheques," Peter said when he coalesced enough to communicate again. His edges remained shifting in the wind, trailing wisps of his coat and beard peeling off in the faint circulation of air through the door. "Elias." His thick eyebrows lowered over his pale blue eyes. "You're different?"

"It's been an eventual few years, Peter," Elias informed him. "I know the days, weeks, months all tend to escape you out on the _Tundra—"_

"What happened to you?" Peter took a drifting step closer to the desk, squinting at Elias. "You've _changed."_

"Well, I imagine financial independence wears well," Elias said with a cold smile.

"Have you strayed from It Knows You?" A note of awe colored Peter's words. "The usual oppressive vision that follows you has closed its eyes."

"No," Elias said patiently. "I've merely focused. Many things have changed since you last left port."

"What have you done?" he asked, small and petulant.

"I met an ambitious pair of young men with a talent for sculpture." Placing his finger on a page, Elias followed the lines of names, dates, addresses, mobile numbers. As the ink pressed to his skin, a soft warm swell of vision took his vision, glimpses of distant homes and dormitories and day jobs and rides on the train coming to him as he examined each kine. "Do you need something, Peter? I'm rather busy."

"You've gotten yourself into another one of your schemes, haven't you?"

Closing his eyes, Elias examined one kine closely. They weren't far, somewhere around Dartford, and they were living alone. A green tag hung from their ear, so they were the product of Hopworth's own intervention. With a little focus, Elias could see they had met Martin a few months ago, but had only just joined the kinefolk forum recently out of a skittish loneliness. More than once, they had dialed the number for the Institute only to cut the call before it connected. Honestly, they were astray, and being brought into the fold with their own kind would be a mercy.

Elias nodded and filed the name away to give to his latest client.

"Elias," Peter murmured.

Without opening his eyes, Elias tutted. "Peter. Go read a newspaper. Catch up on the world. Then we can do lunch. As you may be able to tell, I'm rather busy."

For some time, Elias continued go through the candidates, singling out the best cows for milk contracts.

When he opened his eyes again, the fog was gone, though the chill remained.)

* * *

Waking up in bed was familiar enough that Martin didn't immediately panic or worry too much, rousing slowly and stretching until his back gave a nice pop, then sagging back against the pillow.

Reaching back, Martin gave a little frown as his hand _didn't_ hit another warm body. Usually he slept either with Jon sprawled across his chest (shamelessly using a swell of breast as a pillow, which Martin could hardly blame him for) or with Jon tucked up against his back and breathing faintly against Martin's neck.

Groggy, he rolled over to look around, and almost immediately shrieked, sitting up in bed and away from _what the fuck was that moving thing, shit!_

"Someone's awake!" a cheerful voice said from beyond the open door, into the living area.

Jon appeared in the doorway a second later, shooting a glower over his shoulder. His expression softened as he turned his attention to Martin. "Hi. Are you alright?"

"I— I— Yes, I thought…" He patted his hands against the bed, as if expecting something to be lurking there. "Nevermind."

"Ah, no. There is, well." Chewing his lower lip, Jon walked over to the bed and extended both his hands to Martin. "Come here."

"Okay?" Martin scooted to the edge of the bed and let Jon guide him upright.

Something hit his leg, and he yelped, spun around to look behind him

"Ouf— christ, Martin," Jon grunted, a little pained, releasing one hand to step back. rubbing his side. "Calm down, _please."_

"I just keep feeling—"

"Yes, I _know,"_ Jon said with a sigh. Sidling into Martin's space, he held Martin's gaze as he reached down and closed his hand around… around…

Blinking, Martin looked down at what the hell Jon was holding.

"Are they still here?" Martin asked dully.

He nodded. "In the living room."

Taking a moment, Martin tried to spot something he could— could pick up and heft easily, but most of their stuff was still in boxes and he wasn't about to hurl Jon's cologne bottle or any of the picture frames, so he settled on, of all things, a half-empty water bottle that was living next to the bed.

Stepping into the living room, Martin threw it at Jared. "You absolute _prick!_ You completely mental bastard!"

Adekoya covered his mouth with a hand as Jared looked up, a frown already in place. "Ngh. Ow."

"Is this a joke?" His voice was a little shrill, jumping up an octave with his upset. His— he was swishing, the weight solid and flicking angrily in an extension of his mood. With zero compunction, Adekoya leaned in his seat to look at it, seeming delighted.

"Looks good!" he opined brightly.

"I hate you both!" Martin jabbed a finger at Jared as he stood. He was a tall fellow, but honestly? Truly? It was hard to be afraid anymore. "Take it off!"

Jared shook his head. "No, it's cute."

"Cute?! Humans do not have tails! I don't want a tail!" It continued to flick in agitation behind him.

Jared gave a great meaty shrug. "No. It's my fee. I like it."

"Fee? Fee for _what?"_

Adekoya got to his feet. "About that, let's talk about that!" His hands rubbed together briskly. "Much safer topic."

 _Swish, swish_ brushed against the back of Martin's thighs, and his entire body tensed with the effort to not impotently leap away from it.

Quietly, Jon caught the end of it and held it in his hand to still it. It was— there was some soft hair on it, _humiliatingly_ white and black spattered. With a moue of bemusement, Jon stroked the hair, his brows furrowed.

Without meaning to, Martin smacked his chest with it, and he dropped it, startled.

"Sorry," Martin muttered.

"Going on vacation," Jared said lowly.

"Yes, right to the point." Adekoya stepped up to Jared's side. "We're going to be off for a bit. Maybe a long bit?" He grinned, teeth bright and handsome. "Dunno yet, really, I haven't done a proper vacation since my gap year. Poor J never got to do one anyway." He patted Jared's arm.

"You're… vacationing," Martin echoed in disbelief. "What, what's that mean?"

"Well, we've done a lot of work on this project, and we… think it's a good stopping point? The wheels are fully on the trolley at this point, so we think it's a good time to just… take a break."

Jared nodded. "Seb wants to see Russia again."

"I'm a huge fan of the architecture, and the furry hats?" Adekoya let out an almost dreamy sigh. "We had a trek through, following the rail line— I'm sure you followed a bit of it, Sims," he directed a nod to Jon, who reluctantly nodded back. "But we never got to really relax and take in the sights."

"Want to go back to New Zealand," Jared said. "Love those movies. And the sheep."

"So, yeah! We wanted to give you a once-over before we vanished. I imagine if we're not picking out new kine, it'll be harder to track us, so." Adekoya shrugged.

"You're going to stop?" Jon asked. "Stop… actively turning people?"

"Yeah, pretty much. We— let's be honest here, we don't _need_ to do it anymore? Perfect time to take a breather."

"We'll come back." Jared reached out, and Martin wasn't prepared enough to dodge it as Jared patted him on the head. "My best cow. We'll check in. But…"

 _"Vacation,"_ Adekoya said, savoring the word, grinning. "I'm pretty excited." And wonder of wonders, he reached out as well, hand extended to Jon.

Shooting Martin a glance, Jon accepted it, and shook briskly.

"Pleasure working with you all. The whole Institute, or the Commune, or whatever you're calling it," Adekoya said.

"Take care of the cows," Jared intoned gravely, and began to lumber towards the door.

"Bye!"

They left, unlocking the door, then doing the lock on the knob up behind them before vanishing.

Martin wanted to say something. It came out as a tight squeak, like a mouse being trod on.

With an enormous sigh, Jon leaned his face into his hands. "That," he said, "is _not good."_

Martin was curious as to why, but then his new tail swung and hit him in the leg, and he jumped, slapping a hand over his chest. "God's sake!"

* * *

"The problem is," Jon said the next day as Martin sat in the chair across the deck, watching Jon unlock his desk drawers and remove some folders, "that if Adekoya and Hopworth feel like their direct intervention is no longer necessary, they must have established enough kinefolk for the group to become self-populating through transmission alone."

"But," Martin said, and got up to sit down in the chair again, pulling his tail out of the way. "But the milk-based transmission is, it's point-something percent, isn't it?"

"Ye— yes," Jon agreed, glaring at his papers.

"And even then, well, not everyone turns… " Martin gestured to himself demonstrably. "A lot are just like you."

"Right. Many don't even exhibit enough signs to be, frankly, publicly exposed," Jon agreed. He scratched at his chin, his stubble making a rough, prickly sound. "So why are they going on bloody _holiday?"_

"Maybe we should be relieved? That they're not stirring up trouble?"

"No," Jon said immediately. "No, I would much rather have Adekoya and Hopworth where I can track them. The fact they're swanning off is dire news."

"Right," Martin sighed.

Jon looked up from his papers, and his expression softened. "Look. I'll work at this, see if there's something I'm missing. I know you have your own work to do."

"You sure?" Standing, Martin leaned over the desk to fold his hand over Jon's.

His smile was tight, but Jon gave a curt nod. "I am. Let me… agonize over this for a while, and I'll find something, I'm sure." With a deep sigh, he added, "Elias will be expecting you."

"You're more important," Martin told him, and leaned further to kiss Jon chastely. "I'll see you back home, okay?"

"Yes," Jon said, gaze already lowering back to his papers.

"Do not stay here all night, I mean it."

"Yes, Martin," Jon sighed, and offered a wan smile. "See you back… home."

* * *

There was a lingering tension to losing track of Adekoya and Hopworth. At the very least, when Martin knew roughly where they were, there was a sense that at least they couldn't surprise him. That was something, at least. Now, as they vanished from the Institute's sight, it was not unlike having a bullet stood on the corner of his desk suddenly go missing. The lack of knowledge was worse than the inevitability.

Martin felt stress throb through his head, a persistent low-grade headache that had been dogging him since the terrible twosome left for presumably Russia. He pressed his fingers into his brow, then dragged a hand back and through his hair.

"Problem?" Elias asked solicitously.

"Just a headache," Martin said, shaking his head, and then stopping because that hurt too. "I'm fine."

They were in one of the milking rooms, amid the saddles and shelves of equipment and wall-mounted machines. Jessamine "but call me Jessa" Valenti was new to the facility and offered Martin a vague smile.

"Been gettin' them myself. Might be allergies. Does London get much pollen?" She had her hair back in a long braid, and nervously tucked her fringe behind her ears. Her voice betrayed her as well out of town, something American, though Martin had no idea what part specifically. "Back home, it's cedar going off all over, it leaves like this coat of powder over the whole city."

"Don't think there's much cedar around here," Martin said.

"Ah. Well." She shrugged.

"Shall we get started?" Elias asked, voice soft and nearly kind. "I believe Martin has someone waiting up for him."

By now, Elias being weird about him and Jon barely registered on Martin's mental radar, he was so used to it. But Jessa inhaled sharply, her fingers fiddling with the laces hung from the collar of her shirt, twisting them around her fingers.

"You do? Th— that's great, was she… or he, or they, or uh," she stumbled, before coming to a hard stop and seeming to realign her words. "You're dating? Even with… this?"

There was a thread of nervous hope in her voice that Martin fully understood, and it smoothed over the incredulousness that anyone would think he was possibly straight. Martin let out a small smile. "We've moved in together a while back. He doesn't mind all this. Or, that sounds a little… dismissive?" Martin rubbed the back of his neck. "I think he likes it, now that it's just… routine."

She nodded briskly, and her fringe slipped free again. "That's, that's a relief. Were you sweethearts before it happened?"

"Uh, no," Martin said slowly. "I suppose the— me becoming kine, it helped?"

As they spoke, Elias lowered a saddle down and patted it. "Hop up, Ms. Valenti."

"Right, right," she murmured, and shifted over to get her legs on either side of the seat. As Elias cranked the saddle upward, she slapped her hands onto the handholds, a nervous laugh fluttering out. "Goddamn, it's, uh, real reassuring to hear that. I— I've worried about… that." Her hands smoothed her long shirt down, as if she weren't lifted up and in position for milking.

Considering it, Martin stepped closer, until he could rest a hand on the armrest of the saddle, curved in front of her. "It's weird, you know. I mean, all this, it wasn't— wasn't _easy_ . Sometimes it was a right terror, but…" He very carefully didn't so much as glance Elias' way as he spoke. "Besides that, I think it's… been good? For me, anyway. I have my _sweetheart,_ and I have the other kinefolk to help out, and it, I like the helping, I guess?"

She grinned; she had a lot of freckles. "You're great at it. The forum has been so helpful."

"I'm glad." He exhaled hard. "I really mean that, I'm glad."

"Martin," Elias said softly. "Do you want to hop on one of the other saddles? Before you have to rush home to your beau."

That was tempting. Maybe if he did his milking with a first timer like Jessa, Elias wouldn't keep him on saddle for twice as long as necessary. With a curt nod, Martin reached for the buttons of his shirt. "Yeah, alright. Might as well."

As he climbed up, he let his teats out, giving one a relieved rub.

A whistle let out, and Jessa slapped her hand over her mouth. "Fuck I'm sorry, I— I was just surprised. Hell, that was inappropriate."

Elias tapped his fist against his mouth, hiding his smile. "He's very impressive, isn't he."

"Elias," Martin groaned.

"Am I going to get that big? Christ."

"Take yours out, please," Elias said, holding the milking cups in his hands. Blushing, Jessa untied her laces, nodding. "Arms on the bar." As she positioned, Elias moved to apply the cups. "You're not far behind him. I'd guess… 900 grams, maybe 905."

Over Elias' head, Jessa widened her eyes at Martin, mouthing a singular _'what'_ to him. He offered an eye roll in return, a bit of camaraderie.

As the pump started, Jessa's face started to flush, her nails digging into the padded bar. "Whoo boy, okay. Uh.' She licked her lips. "C— can I have the, uh, the headphones? I don't like the— the sounds I—"

"Of course," Elias said agreeably, and retrieved a set of wide-cup headphones from the equipment shelf. Holding her gaze, he lifted them into position over her ears, then set them into place.

She smiled, and thanked him before her attention started to slide away from her, her hips rocking on the saddle, her breasts swinging with her anxious movements.

After observing for a moment, Elias turned to Martin. "What?" he asked, nodding vaguely to Martin's expression.

"900, maybe 905?" Martin asked, sighing. "Was that a cold read?"

"Does it help that I know you're a kilo and change?" He cupped one of Martin's teats and lifted it.

"No, it really doesn't!" Martin laughed. "That's mad, that you know that."

"I work with kine every day, Martin. It would be strange if I didn't gain some specialized knowledge." He thumbed Martin's nipples in a slow circle, making Martin squirm.

"Carrying around a kilo, no wonder my back aches some days," Martin muttered.

"Each, Martin. So, two kilos." As Elias fixed the cups into place for Martin, the room was already filling with the crooning sound of lowing. Heat flared in Martin's chest, tongue curling as he ached to join in.

The machine powered on, and Martin's eyes immediately lidded, his back bowing as he sagged into the feeling of his milk letting down. Arms draped across the bar, Martin groaned with relief. It'd been a long day already, and he felt so heavy.

Perfect nails dragged through Martin's hair as his eyes went dazed, unseeing. They felt so nice, pressing just so into his scalp, seeming to immediately find the sore points where his headache was concentrated and rubbing there.

"Ah. There they are. Coming in finally," Elias murmured, stroking Martin's hair back from his forehead.

"Mmmhmmmmuuuuuuuh, mmhm."

"Just relax. Let's see how much milk you have today."

* * *

They tended to have Sundays off, as cliche as that was.

Well, they were _offered_ Sundays off. Jon was oft such a workaholic that they wound up at the Institute every day regardless, but something about the kine becoming public alongside the new apartment seemed to slow Jon down. More and more often, Martin woke up, and was pleased to find they weren't running out the door to work.

This morning, Martin heard the sounds of cooking from the kitchen, and groaned, rolling over to pull a pillow over his head. His head was _throbbing_. He was starting to fear he'd have to go to an actual doctor for a check-up, his first since his change. It sounded about as appealing as swallowing glass, honestly. The medical field was still catching up with kinefolk.

The noise finally quieted down enough Martin felt capable of getting out of bed and facing the world. Outside the bedroom was paracetamol. That would fix him up right.

Pulling on a robe, Martin staggered gracelessly to the bathroom, palming a few pills before heading to the kitchen.

The overhead was on a sliding dimmer switch. He slid it down halfway as he walked in.

Jon stood at the stove and looked up as the light lowered. "Martin, good— you look dreadful," he said, face knitting into a concerned look.

"One moment," Martin said, and took out a glass, filling it from the tap so he could take his pills. Replacing the glass in the rack, he gave Jon a wan smile. "Morning."

"Headache still?"

Martin nodded carefully; moving his head too much hurt. "Might have to contact my GP. Not looking forward to it, if'm honest."

"No, I imagine not." He turned back to the stove. "Sit down before you fall down."

Martin did better than than, laying his head in the crook of his arm as he watched Jon. There was a bowl of batter near him, and he was setting a pair of meticulously cleaned tuna can rounds into the hot pan. With a ladle, he dropped a helping of batter into each round, nodding in approval as they started to sizzle.

Crumpets. Martin loved homemade crumpets. He loved Jon.

His eyes were shut when Jon wandered over to stand over him, the back of his fingers stroking down Martin's cheek and along his neck to his shoulder.

"Mhm," Martin mumbled.

"Hey there." He continued to stroke Martin's skin, and let out a considering hum. "It's strange… Was your skin this soft before?"

"Dunno," Martin offered. "Kine thing."

"Yes, I know. Not sure what the purpose is, making you so… damned touchable."

"Who knows." He kept his eyes closed, happy to let Jon touch him. It was a nice distraction.

Jon stepped away to flip the crumpets before returning to tucking his hand up into Martin's hair— and then yanked away so sharply, he took a few strands with him, and Martin yelped, jolting upright. "Jon!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Jon moved closer, hands lifted. "I didn't— just— stay still a moment, Martin."

"Okay," Martin murmured, frowning as Jon slid his hands much more carefully into Martin's hair.

This time, he felt it; there was _something_ there, his fingers finding— something, near the top of Martin's skull. "What is that?"

Shaking his head, Jon darted away to move the pan off the burner, then returned. "Bow your head a little."

"Okay," Martin said again, voice much less steady. Whatever it was felt firm. God, was it a tumor? Did tumors work that way? He had no idea.

Probing through Martin's hair, Jon carefully parted a few locks, and dug his fingers into two spots. Immediately, Martin's toes curled as the pressure in his head gave way, a blessed release of pain. "Jon, Jon, what is that, what?"

"I…" He licked his lips, and moved to cup Martin's cheeks, angling his head. "I… _fuck."_

Tears prickled in Martin's eyes, and his tail gave an unhappy lash. "What? What is it?"

Taking a deep breath, Jon said, "I believe a last gift from Jared, but we should check with the other kine." He looked into Martin's eyes. "I think you have, ah. Horns. Little ones."

Martin blinked at Jon, then wordlessly got up and went to the bathroom, this time flicking on the light to look at his reflection.

And yes. Peaking through his sleep-tousled hair were a pair of little rounded mounds, each small enough Martin could encircle them with his thumb to forefinger. They were subtle enough that if he wasn't looking for them, he'd not have noticed them.

But they were there. Standing out from his head.

Turning away, Martin went to the sofa to grab his laptop, retreating to the kitchen to sit at the island again.

"Martin," Jon started.

"I still want crumpets," Martin said sourly, opening his laptop and pulling up the kine chat server. "I might _need_ crumpets or I'm going to start yelling."

"I can make them, don't worry," Jon said. "It'll be alright, Martin."

"Of course, of _course_ they went off the grid after setting this up!"

"I know, love," Jon said calmly.

"I need to figure out what's going on."

"You do that," Jon said in that same agonizingly soft tone. "I'll handle breakfast."

Martin figured out what was going on.

He wasn't the only one. Which, obviously, he was never alone in his plights anymore. He first asked a small group of longtime kine, some tagged persons with double- or triple-digit tags if they're noticed anything coming out of their head. Once it was clear that, well, yes, now that you mention it, I thought it was just a headache but now I have these nubby things—

Sighing loud and aggrieved, Martin checked in with the wider group, and opened a notepad file to start jotting down observations.

After a few minutes, Martin said, "Jon, come here a sec."

Jon begged off for a moment, moving finished crumpets over to his cooling rack before pouring more batter in. Then, he walked over, and Martin wordlessly pressed his fingers into Jon's scalp, rubbing through his hair.

"You have any headaches?"

"Not recently," Jon said, following Martin's hands up to feel around as well. But there were only two faint bumps up there.

"Right," Martin said, and looked back at the laptop. "Okay. I think it's a gradient."

"Tell me," Jon said, as he returned to his pan-watching.

"Longest ones so far are only a few inches. Shortest ones are like yours, just little bumps." He gnawed at his lip and opened a spreadsheet to compare a few things. "It's, uh, proportional."

"To what?" Jon supplied.

"To… to, like, how much they've presented physical changes." He sighed again, annoyed. "Like, who's grown the most, who's putting out a large volume of milk, so on." Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his chair, chin tucked down to his chest. "Fee."

At long last, Jon set a plate in front of Martin, taking the chair next to him. "What's that?"

"Jared mentioned a fee," Martin murmured. "Who paid him… Or, I mean." He snorted. "I paid him, with the— the tail, but I think this was the only other _blueprint update,_ right? So it…" He stared hard at the plate. "It's proportional to how much they changed. Or how much milk they make? It's not always the same, right?"

"There's obvious correlation, but no, there's outliers who just produce more," Jon said, smearing jam on his crumpets. "If you can get me a spread of… of horn lengths, I can compare it across the data."

"Yeah," Martin murmured, reluctantly unfolding his arms. Tearing off a piece, he dipped it into the jam and chewed it thoughtfully. Once he swallowed, he added, "If they don't stop growing, I am going to find those two vagabonds and… and…"

Jon's hand pressed against Martin's thigh. The weight was unfairly comforting.

* * *

(It was a productive evening. Mitcham NuMilk Dairy was ready for production, provided the right cows. And Elias was confident with the group he'd selected, observing them in the milking room and tending to them until they were ready.

He needed a few more days to guide them along. One of the kine was nervous about the whole affair, but Elias had long observed the benefits of communal milking. A small herd did much better than solo cows.

It did occur to him that it might be useful to set up an academic pseudonym, a way to share his insights with the world. At least, after he'd exhausted their personal worth.

There were private rooms through the boarding house, but most of the kine he'd been working with slept in the living space, piled half on top of each other.

It really was very sweet, how they bonded. He kindly flicked the lights off before slipping out into the hallway, checking his watch.

Something stirred at the corner of his awareness. Martin was here.

It was Sunday night. There was nothing so pressing to demand his presence. Elias frowned vaguely towards the elevator, and probed around, his awareness sliding against the smooth river stone of Martin's mind, feeling for a reason.

Ah. Martin was upset. Time for another outburst.

He waited for Martin at the elevator, enjoying the way Martin's surprise at seeing him on the other side of the doors popped his anger like a soap bubble.

"Ah!" Martin leaned back, hand on his chest. "D— don't _do_ that!"

"Martin, it's late. What brings you in at this hour?"

"What brings me in?" His voice rose tremulously. Tearing his knit hat off his head, he revealed his mussed hair, and—

Oh, good. Elias schooled his face into a lightly surprised expression as he examined the blunt, round horns poking out from Martin's head. They were _perfect,_ honestly; not intrusive enough to bother anyone, but visible enough to betray the nature of any cow who wanted to hide. He had begun to worry, given how long they took to appear, but Mr. Hopworth did his work admirably as ever.

They were, undoubtedly, _adorable._

"That does explain your headache, this past week."

"Shut up," Martin snapped.

Elias held a finger to his lips. "If this is liable to get loud, shall we take it to the office? Unless you'd like everyone to wake up and overhear."

"Fine." He shouldered past Elias, which was very rude. Deciding to let it go, Elias followed him to the other end of the hallway, into the office.

Turning the lock behind, Elias watched Martin lean on the desk, arms folded under his chest. No bustier today, none of the fine things Elias had bought for him. Just an old green jumper and some jeans with a hole sewn in to let his tail swing unhappily, a constant mark of his mood.

"You don't seem to like the horns," Elias offered. "Perhaps when Adekoya and Hopworth return to England, you might convince them to remove them."

"It's funny," Martin said, in a tone that implied it was very much not funny, "Jared mentioned something about a fee. Which is the first I've gotten an inkling anyone else might be involved in all this." He narrowed his eyes. "They do seem very— very _useful,_ don't they?"

"Do they?" Elias folded his hands behind his back. "I think anyone trying to gore someone with them would mostly injure themselves."

"They seem very useful in finding kine, though," Martin said, eyes narrow on Elias' face.

"Hm. Yes, I could see that. Simplify matters somewhat, with the unfortunate denial that comes with the change."

The intensity of Martin's gaze was… honestly a little thrilling. Already, Elias knew he would have to choose his words wisely if he wanted to waylay suspicion, but there was always something seductive about being known. Being seen. No amount of liaison with the Flesh would ever rid Elias of his first love.

He watched Martin go through possible responses, considering each accusation before moving onto the next. His tongue ran over his teeth.

 _"When_ did you know?"

The instinct of denial was there.

Elias hummed. "That's a rather complicated question. Which _part?"_

Shutting his eyes, Martin took a deep breath. "Fuck. Okay. When did you know… this would happen?"

"In the broad sense?" Elias let out a soft chuckle. "I'm as surprised as you. It's easy to project some aspects of where this is leading, but I have no special foreknowledge outside intuition. Most of the work was genuinely the efforts of our mutual friends."

"When did you talk to Hopworth and Adekoya?"

"After the third time you were taken, I thought it wise to meet them and learn more about what they had in store," Elias answered dutifully.

Martin exhaled hard, shoulders slumping. "That… okay. I was— I worried you were part of this since the beginning." His face pinched. "That you'd… singled me out or something."

Stepping closer, Elias placed a hand on each of Martin's shoulders. "I saw your potential, perhaps, but I can't take credit for it."

"Do you ever understand how creepy you sound? Is it on purpose?"

Elias grinned.

Lowing his gaze, Martin grew contemplative again. "You knew the kine would become public."

"It was honestly inevitable," Elias said, sidestepping his own responsibility neatly. "The writing was on the wall long before then. It was a matter of making sure we were all prepared before that happened. At the risk of sounding arrogant, I believe it went about as well as it ever could." He tucked a curled finger under Martin's chin. "In large part thanks to you, Martin."

Rather than being flattered, Martin stared at at Elias. "And when did you decide on the horns? Because that was you, wasn't it? You asked them to do it." His brow furrowed. "And why the _tail?_ Not everyone got one, so what's the point?"

Elias reached up and stroked one. As requested, they were soft, unlikely to do much damage, and rubbing the scalp around where they rose up made Martin's eyes lid slowly. "You should trust your instincts, Martin. When Adekoya indicated he felt their presence wasn't needed any longer, I largely agreed, but wanted a clear indicator of a new kine coming into their own, something that would let us find them easily." He stroked Martin's hair back. "You guess it from the start."

"You couldn't have _said something,_ you couldn't have—" He pressed his lips together with a furious noise.

"As for the tail…" Elias shrugged. "Jared thought it was cute. I considered it overzealous, but it's hard to rein in an artist such as him. I convinced him not to apply it to every kine, but to…" He touched his tongue to his upper lip. "To the most _prolific_."

"Oh, good. Lucky me," Martin groused, batting Elias' hand away from his hair. "This is it, though? This is the last of it?"

"I am of the opinion that the form is perfect." There was nothing left for Hopworth to do. Only time and experimentation would improve the cows further.

"Wonderful. Great." He bent enough to press his hands against his face. When he resurfaced, he seemed calm, outside the red lim around his eyes. He let out a long breath.

It was difficult not to be terribly fond of him. Hopworth's own affection for Martin was clear and present in all the handcraft that formed Martin's body. The echoes of Hopworth's inspiration rippled out across every kine in the world.

There was no harm in finding it inspiring.

When Elias touched Martin's mind, he was still simmering with anger, but was calmer. Determined.

"What now," Martin asked quietly.

"Now? Has something changed?" At Martin's glare, Elias met him steadily. "We have become an effective team. We guide the kine, protect them, ensure their gifts are used properly. I don't see what has to change."

"You want me to just ignore that you've been in on this?"

"We've both been in on this," Elias pointed out. "You've hardly made the repeated trips from Mr. Hopworth known. No, you and I both see when a ship needs steering." The kine skin was soft like a rich suede under Elias' thumb.

"I don't trust you," Martin said firmly.

As though that mattered. "But you trust me to do what's best for the kine. That's more than enough to work with."

Looking up at the ceiling, Martin sighed. "Yeah, fine."

The urge to touch was overwhelming, particularly with the horns peeking out, a clear marker of what Martin had become. Reaching up, Elias stroked both of them, his thumbs digging in.

Martin's eyes fluttered shut, a long rumble unlocking from his chest. "Mmhmm."

"You are a remarkable creature," Elias said, and leaned in to kiss his slack lips.

It was warm and wet for a few seconds, before Martin's teeth pressed down on Elias' lip. _Hard._

Reeling back, he covered his mouth.

Martin's cheeks were flushed, his eyes fever bright. "No. That's not for you."

Ah. Alright. He shrugged, ignoring the brief flare of disappointment. "I see." He shoved a leg between Martin's, pushing up mercilessly. Martin gasped, tossing his head back. "But this _is,_ isn't it?"

This was manageable. As much as Elias wanted Martin, when he thought about Sunday morning breakfasts and late night takeaway on a sofa and crosswords at the cafe, he bristled. Relegating all of _that_ to his failed archivist was an acceptable trade-off. Just so long as he could have _this._

Elias dug his teeth into the flesh of Martin's shoulder instead, rubbing his tongue over the soft texture of his skin, feeling Martin rub helplessly up against him. Pushing up harder, he made Martin rise up on his toes, feeling how hot and wet Martin was through his jeans.

Stepping back, Elias forced Martin to roll over, his body draped over the desk. Stroking a hand up under his jumper was lush and warm, feeling Martin groan and breathe under him. There was enough softness to him, it was impossible to resist pressing his fingers in, dragging against Martin's flesh. Every inch of him was an invitation.

His teats were pillowed out heavily in front of him. Grabbing them was like obeying a gravitational pull; Elias squeezed them, feeling Martin buck underneath him.

Shoving Martin's jeans down, Elias insinuated himself against that open wetness, bracing a hand on Martin's back as he slid his cock directly in and shoved as hard as he could against Martin's arse and thighs. The noise wretched out of him was loud, and Elias hooked his fingers into Martin's mouth to quiet him. Suction immediately enclosed his fingers, and Elias stroked Martin's cheek with his thumb, pleased with how _welcoming_ Martin was as he fucked him.

Objects on the desk rattled. A folder slid off onto the floor, scattering papers around. Martin's muffled lowing was a din in the small office.

Putting Martin through his paces and making use of his cow, that belonged to Elias, and he could settle for that. Driving into him, hearing every muffled moan, reminding him this part of his body remained under his human clothes: This belonged to Elias.

There was no milk to wringe out of him tonight, unfortunately. But there was always more, and Elias was patient.

After he took his pleasure out of Martin, spilled into him and enjoyed a moment of laying heavily against Martin's body, Elias helped Martin clean up. His eyes were dazed, and Elias wiped stray wetness from his lips.

"I'll see you Monday, Martin," Elias said kindly, and left him to get himself home.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone who helped me write a mockup of terrible british tabloids. btw, y'all okay? bc like.... wow your tabloids _suck_
> 
> MY GOD I FINALLY REACHED THE PART I HAVE ALREADY WRITTEN. i have written everything thus far to justify _one PWP piece I wrote at this point months ago._ that'll be the next chapter. we finally made it folks. XD XD XD
> 
> this has been a lot of fun to write, and I appreciate people caring about this Weird Niche Porn AU.
> 
> i love this weird not-quite-love triangle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS JUST PORN. IT'S REALLY JUST 5,500 WORDS OF PORN. It's just Elias upping his creep game.
> 
> extra tags just for this chapter: a form of audio hypnosis, voyeurism/public showing, deep deep subspace (cowspace), conditioning, unrealistic dairy collection standards, and cliche cow-print accessories. if you don't like elias being an enamored creep, pass on this one.

There was a facility opening up outside Genoa, which meant someone needed to go and walk through it, to ensure everything was up to code.

Lately, there seemed to be so many NuMilk facilities opening up, it was becoming impossible to keep up. Soon they would need a committee or an audit team. Already, they were singling out names, specific kine who had backgrounds in the right industries.

But until that was finalized, everyone had to pitch in. As much as Martin hated being apart from Jon, his fiance was off handling this one, wielding a list of regulations and probably an adorably stern expression.

Martin missed him.

At least there was always work to do, an easy way to take his mind off it.

The Magnus Kine Commune maintained multiple kine dormitories. Today, Martin walked through the sun-lit halls of The Ranch. It was situated between London and Kent, a single-level sprawl of building sat out at the end of a long road. It was remote, and surrounded in flowering magnolias. If Martin squinted at the horizon, he might see some of the gardens of Chevening.

Apparently, Elias had friends around here. Friends with the sort of money that let them have their own kine commune nearby as a source of curiosity and, obviously, milk.

It was irritatingly nice. There was a _groundskeeper._ They called Martin "sir," and Martin feared he would break out in hives, surrounded by all the posh-ness.

All that said. Martin enjoyed his work these days the most. Sitting in the conservatory ( _really)_ and talking to new kine, following up with those settling in, he felt important. Like a house matron seeing to the matters of the day.

Elias had been hovering around his peripherals all day, just along the edge of Martin's meet and greets. He observed, drank his tea off in the corner, worked on his phone often, and offered narrow smiles at Martin across the room. At lunch, they had sandwiches and talked about operations, about the progress on the Ranch, and about upcoming meetings. When Jon sent pictures of some lovely old buildings in Genoa, Martin tilted the phone for Elias to see.

When he wasn't being awful, Elias could be… companionable. When the mood took him. When he he wasn't scheming some ridiculous new plan that he would eventually deign to bring Martin in on.

As Martin wound down his conferences for the day, Elias broke his tenuous orbit around Martin, swooping in.

"Yes?" Martin asked, vaguely stand-offish. It wouldn't do to let Elias think he was _welcome_ .

"Finished for the day?"

"You know I am," Martin said, giving Elias a stern look. He turned, leaving the airy room, and felt Elias at his side.

"I'm always impressed at your work here," Elias said quietly. "Something of your demeanor seems to encourage people to trust you so readily." He tilted his head, thoughtful. "An effect of your shared affliction?"

"I saw the paper on _herd mentality,_ thanks," Martin groused.

"A very interesting read. But you even if it is an effect of the kine, you utilize it well. This commune will be at capacity in no time, and it's no small thanks to you."

A grim smile crossed Martin's face. "Why are you buttering me up?"

"Can I have a moment of pride for my assistant without ulterior motives?"

"Dunno, can you?"

"Let yourself be flattered, Martin, please," Elias said.

There was something genuine (or, at least, not smug) about it. Ducking his head, Martin smiled. "I just want to make sure everything's worked out. That everyone is safe and cared for. Not everyone has their own Jon."

"A great pity for them all," Elias said dryly. His hand alighted to Martin's shoulder, guiding them both past the communal milking rooms. As they went, Martin tilted his head, listening to the chorus of crooning noises, not quite deadened by the door, the sounds of deep pleasure and contentment. He licked his lips. "Now," Elias went on, "I have some meetings late into the night. Do you mind if we see to you now, a little early?"

If anything, that would be a relief. He shrugged non-chalantly, but there was a tightness in his chest, the heft of a full day's milk he'd been carrying around. With Jon away, there hadn't been someone to help alleviate the pressure before work or through the day.

It was really a merciless feedback loop, how the milking became more and more… prolific. Some days, it felt like he'd never finish getting a batch out, there was just so much. Other days, he broke it up into sessions through the day, as many as three or four. In the moment, it felt satisfying and decadent, of course, but the time just flew out the damned window.

Elias let them into a private milking room, locking up behind them with a key.

"Why do you do that?" Martin asked, even as he began taking off his clothes, unzipping his bustier.

Elias lifted his chin as he turned on the milking machine. "Hm. Paranoia, I would guess. You don't know this because I've tried to shield it from you, but I receive offers for your contract regularly. Some come with… rather insistent correspondence. I suppose I worry someone might come and whisk you away when we're vulnerable."

"People want me to work with them? You've never mentioned."

"Presumptuous of me, perhaps, but I very much doubted you would want to be separated from Jon or myself on a permanent basis." He approached the saddle and lowered it, meeting Martin's eyes over it. "And I would be terribly jealous to have you work with another handler. Or, god forbid, an automated process."

"Coming from anyone else, that might be sweet," Martin said, a little flip. He folded up his clothes, setting them aside. "Admittedly, I prefer the hands-on approach. Guess I'm a bit spoiled with all the personal _handling."_

Elias gave him an indulgent smile in return. "You're worth spoiling."

Ignoring him (because there was no safe answer to that), Martin moved to bracket the saddle. As Elias pulled the lever, it rose off the ground, carrying Martin up with a sharp gasp. The cushion was curved and padded, and his bottom filled most of it, his toes curling as the saddle held him aloft, pressing firmly and taking all his weight. Which included a fair bit of milk-weight as well.

As he squirmed around, getting comfortable, Elias circled around slowly, nudging Martin's legs against the padded bar under the seat. It really was a marvel of collaboration, the latest (and, Martin thought, final) iteration of the saddle. Practically a multitool for milking. Martin's legs were tucked back just enough he would be comfortable sitting there for an extended period, if need be. It'd taken trial and error, but Martin was determined and there were plenty of kine to test things out.

Walking over to a shelf mounted on the wall, Elias picked up a slightly bulbous shape attached to a buckle. Martin licked his lips as he watched, resting his arms folded on the padded bar in front of him. "Always with that thing."

Quirking an eyebrow, Elias walked back over. "Don't pretend you don't enjoy it." He tapped a finger against Martin's mouth.

"I mean, it— it's effective." He flushed as he watched Elias fiddle with the buckle. "If you have a deadline, though—"

"Don't worry about me, Martin. This is all about you."

How magnanimous. Though he'd be lying if he claimed he didn't get a nice feeling from being cared for like this. Opening his mouth a little, Martin let Elias slide the tip in, and when he pushed, the phallus naturally, smoothly parted his lips. As his jaw widened, the firm phallus pushed down on his tongue. Heat rose in Martin's cheeks as he inhaled through his nose slowly, head leaning back with the pressure.

But Elias cupped the back of his head and pushed until it flattened Martin's tongue, the soft tip nudging against the soft tissue at the back of his throat. A little sound escaped Martin at the burst of sensation.

Once Martin had a gag reflex. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

By the time Elias reached around and fastened the buckle, a lens in Martin's mind had slipped out of focus, everything softening at the edges as his focus narrowed on feeling. He bowed his head to help Elias, and his head was so heavy when he lifted it again after, swallowing impotently around the weight in his mouth. The cock slipped back to nudge deeper every time he sucked it in, and he moaned, eyes lidding as the syrupy warm feeling dripped from his head down his spine, out through his body.

Moving his head in small circles, he tried to draw the phallus in deeper, trying to get it to bump against that vicious intense spot behind his tongue. Every time was another drip of hot sensation into him.

Even now, years into this, Elias wore gloves.

Martin wasn't certain why, but had long gotten over his initial, instinctive offense. It was simply how Elias _was,_ that he pulled on clean white gloves before taking Martin's wrist and pulling it down, wrapping the suede-lined cuff around and buckling that too.

If Martin had opportunity or faculty to opine, he'd hazard that the extra restraints didn't seem necessary tonight, especially given how they were starting this session early. The cuffs where added months ago, after a problem with a kine being milked who had seemed calm and settled in only to suddenly jerk violently and hurl themselves off the saddle. It had shaken Martin so much, they added the restraints to the model. And the cuffs had seen enough use to fairly justify the modification.

But tonight, Martin could only let out a low, muffled noise as Elias walked to the other side, and held out his hand for Martin's.

Perhaps Elias intended to get Martin sorted then sit in the corner chair to do some work, and thus didn't want Martin to fall or something. Whatever the reason, Martin lifted his hand and set his wrist over Elias' palm. In a moment, it was draw down and into the cuff to match the other side, locking both down around his hips. The stretch wasn't tight, but all he could do was tug at the three chain loops locking the cuffs in place. His range of motion was short.

Heaving a sigh, Martin leaned forward on the chest bar and gave Elias a look.

Elias smiled, and gave Martin's nose a little tap, playful and clearly not comprehending.

Elias stepped out of sight, and Martin didn't bother trying to turn and follow him. So he shouldn't have been shocked when the saddle came to life under him with a low, deep rumble making him instinctively try to lift up and off it.

The urge passed; for one, he couldn't move with his legs in position and the cuffs on. The saddle was steady under him as he settled back against it, into the thrumming vibration, letting out a low noise as his head lolled back. Thighs spasming a few times, he tried to lift off a few more times before the lovely futility set in, and he sank into the shivering, growing pleasure.

He heard Elias chuckle faintly, and felt a gloved hand on his shoulder, Elias's fingers sliding up between the shoulder blades and pressing in firmly.

Heat bloomed in Martin, his head lolling, his cries thankfully muffled as he swallowed and swallowed against the gag. It drenched him, the tingly sweep of sensation that grew hotter and hotter, like kindling catching.

"Such a good cow," Elias said with blatant pride, and planted his thumb into Martin's skin, pressing hard.

Martin writhed, tossing his head, feeling the saddle grow wet under him as he started to want it, want _anything_ in him so badly.

He was also, idly, hoping Elias would _milk him._ He was ready, felt it with every breath he took. There was so much waiting to be released from him, if Elias would just get his hands on Martin's teats or grab the suctions cups, or _something._

But Elias was out of sight again, and Martin whimpered as he realized he was being _warmed up._ Which sometimes was helpful, but he was already so full, so ready to be milked, and now he had to wait.

The vibrations from the saddle keyed up higher, making his core feel stirred up and warm. It made it difficult to keep track of things. There was no space for patience in him, but also no ability to _do_ anything about it. But rubbing his tongue against the gag until the heat suffused out and took full grip of his body was a distraction at least.

It felt like Elias left him there a long time, until Martin felt it all catch in his chest and come out a sad, wanting croon of a moo.

Everything went dark as something soft pulled over his eyes from behind. A strap settled into place, wrapping around his head and shrouding him in a cool, impenetrable darkness.

There was no time for recourse, as the saddle shifted and he padded bar pressed against Martin's chest. His relief was intense. _Finally,_ Elias had decided he was ready. He focused on breathing steadily as warm, gloved hands gripped his teats and lifted them, draping them over the top of the bar.

Martin wiggled, trying to present his chest more, needing the attention. Elias in turn squeezed Martin's breasts with open palms, coaxing a trickle out.

But then he stepped away, making Martin cry out for him.

"Impatient," Elias scolded lightly, from somewhere to... the right? "Be good, cow, you know you're well in hand."

 _There_ were _no hands on him,_ he wanted to shout, but it came out another low needy moo, muffled and useless.

The saddle tilted, resting his weight on the chest bar. He was ready, his teats swinging and engorged and so desperate for pressure and suction. All he could do was rock his hips in short, desperate juts against the vibrations, feeling like something below his hips was flooding with that hot syrup feeling, so hot it almost burned.

New pressure came, around his ears. His brow furrowed as cups enclosed around him, the silence that came with them almost absolute, echoing in his head. It was frightening for a moment as his arousal-heavy mind caught up with what was happening. Until the silence melted and revealed a low, reverberating hum underneath, washing up over his ears, seeping into the cradle of his skull, and flooding his mind.

He knew other kine used the headphones to keep calm during milking. Martin hadn't tried them before. They were… strange.

His mouth was freed suddenly, lips open as the gag was drawn out, his tongue still curled to hold it.

He should've told Elias _get on with it._

He should've told Elias _I'm so sore, please, milk me._

He should've told Elias _everything feels like cotton in my head, what is this._

He should've told Elias _you'll be late to your meetings._

Instead, Martin exhaled, and barely heard himself moo desperately, wriggling against the saddle, his teats rippling slightly with their payload, his entire body humming like a struck tuning fork.

Thumbs pressed into his nipples, teasing out short drips of milk that did nothing to release the pressure. There was a murmur of something beyond his ears, Elias saying something as he gripped Martin and stroked his soft skin. It was almost enough, and Martin tipped his head up, back, letting out a full throated low, hoping he'd be taken care of, _please._

He felt the disturbance in the air, how Elias laughed. Martin's cheek was patted briskly, and then Elias vanished again, immediately lost in the darkness.

What returned were the cups, and Martin could have cried with relief. He tried to arch his back, to somehow thrust himself out further. But Martin and Elias had worked together to design the saddles perfectly; he was already in position.

Elias cupped one breast, it overflowing around his palm as he lined up one wide-mouthed cup and rolled it into place. The setting was low, and it very gently made a seal around Martin's nipple, catching.

He held it like that for a while, Elias' fingers clenching the supple flesh until milk began to seep out steadily despite the low suction. Only then did he rest the teat back against the bar and lift the other, repeating the process.

It was agony like that, the draw so low. At this rate, Martin would be here all night and be put away still heavy. Martin rocked himself forward, trying to find an angle, a pressure, something to expel his milk faster. Like this, there was nothing, it wasn't not even the pull of Jon's mouth on him; steady and inexorable and not enough.

There was the noise though. It poured in like a flood under a door, making everything far off. He was still upset about his milk, about Elias, but the sound rose, rose, and Martin's head fell, fell, dropping forward, another faint moo unlocking from his chest.

A blanket of static and white noise coated him, and he couldn't grip the emotions through it, tangling in the feeling that replaced them: soft soft soft everything is soft, he is soft and malleable and _soft._

As he settled into deep breaths, fingers brushed through his hair, petting him softly. _He was a good cow. He was the best cow, and he was being so good right now._ He didn't know where that came from, and tried to strain his hearing to listen. _He was a good cow. But he could be an even better cow. He_ would _be a better cow. He wanted to be a better cow._

He mooed, lips parted. Yes, he wanted to be a better cow. He didn't know how, but _he didn't need to know how, or know anything._

* * *

In the meantime.

Elias was often thrilled with Martin's work, but now he allowed himself a little congratulations of his own. Adjusting the milker's intensity to a low, steady 3, he walked around Martin to observe.

The effects washed over Martin before long. A lassitude settled into his muscles, his hands gone lax, the chains clinking musically as he sagged into his rightful place on the saddle. His teats began with a slow trickle of milk, but as the drowsy cow's head lolled and swayed to the music in his ears, the stream thickened. With no intervention at all, Martin simply put out more and more milk, until the cups were splashed white with every bellows deep breath he took.

With every exhale, the sound was the same: a sweet if dim, "Mmh, mmmhooooo," deep inhale, "Mmmmmuuuuuuuh."

Elias tapped his knuckles against his smile, looking over his prize. The best specimen of his kind in the world. But not perfect. Not yet.

There was a presentation to prepare for, and Elias was cutting the time close. Elias returned to the shelf at the wall and opened a hinged door, removed what he needed.

The sleeves rolled up Martin's arms with minimal effort, and he didn't even twitch as his wrists were uncuffed and recuffed once he was dressed. There were no attempts to escape or move. Which, of course not, not when he was so cozy in the warm depths of his own mind. It always seemed to Elias like a very decadent thing; as his observation of the cows sharpened under the patronage of the Flesh, he'd glimpsed the well-deep calm the cows experienced. But it always seemed a step removed from him.

Frankly, Elias could not conceive of such trust in another person.

Taking one foot at a time and sliding the stockings up, the soft fabric stretched beautiful around Martin's thighs. The print, white with black splotches, might've seemed cliche or even gauche once, but the pattern had certainly gained popularity recently. And it was difficult not to admire it on such a good model.

As a final metaphorical cherry on top, he found where Martin was open and wet, and pressed a plug into him. It glided in easily, absolutely no resistance, and Martin's constant needy stream of noise only stuttered for a second before his next, _deeply_ contented moo.

Checking Martin over for signs of distressed, he found Martin's tail swishing happily, and considered how nice it must've been, to have your entire body brought into tune like a fine instrument.

Glancing at his watch, he saw it was time, and Elias went to retrieve his latest guests.

Now, all the extra work wasn't _needed._ There were many kine that Elias had used for this purpose in the past, and besides, Martin was impressive enough without the effort. But a prideful thing in Elias enjoyed the excuse to put Martin on the best possible display before bringing in the latest set of interested parties to observe his prize.

Today were investors for NuMilk, pivoting away from Old Dairy. There was pleasure in seeing how the industry began to bend to pressure, the way influential people bent the knee while trying to appear so powerful. They were all sharply dressed, professional, and observed Martin with narrow eyes devoid of concern. But they were presumably used to seeing cattle at work.

The private milking room was Elias' preferred room for these meetings, to break the ice, so to speak. There were only a few saddles in here, so it wasn't the most economical use of space, but there was a special feature here.

The milking machine was mounted on the wall, a particularly large model. The metal facade framed the tank, its glass exposed to the room, its contents visible inside. It was enormous for just one cow, but given Martin's exception qualities…

Elias made a show of marking the height of the milk-line in the tank with a red marker as he began to speak about the operation. He'd done this presentation before, and the words spilled from his lips with alacrity and poise, explaining the path that would hopefully lead these wayward entrepreneurs into the new age. It was more than these investors deserved, honestly; their focus was not on him, but on Martin as he lowed and expelled milk aplenty into the suction cups.

One weak-willed man grew visibly flustered as he watched the demonstration. When he gathered his spine, he spoke up: "I— I've met this one before. They were the— the secretary from last week's tour."

"Martin is much more than a secretary," Elias said slowly, and rested a hand on Martin's head, smiling as Martin's instinctively lifted up at the attention, another gush of milk coming from him. "He helped build all of this. He finds these individuals, he helps bring them in, teaches them what they are." Elias stroked the curls back from Martin's forehead. "He's vital and irreplaceable."

Another investor scoffed. "How much?"

"Oh, he's not for sale. Never." Glancing at the crowd through his lashes, Elias added, "He's a heritage cow, without peer."

Martin mooed mindlessly. Sighing fondly, Elias tucked his thumb into his mouth, feeling him immediately begin sucking on the glove. Pressing down on his tongue made Martin hum, quieter, happier.

Turning at the hips, Elias cast a look at the tank again. The milk line already visibly increased. He turned back, seeing his audience noting the same thing, and nodded. Good. They should be impressed.

A narrow woman lifted her chin. "Not every..." She faltered.

"Cow," Elias offered.

Eyes alighted on Martin, to his idle rocking and the flick of his long tail, and back to Elias. "Not every _cow_ will have this level of production."

"No," Elias agreed. "But the output far exceeds the relative size of each cow, and this process dear Martin is undergoing may help." He touched the band of the headphones lightly. "In only two months, I've been learning how to fine-tune the milking, and with incredible precision. Martin has taken to it admirably, as expected, but I suspect any cow will find the process encouraging." Sliding his hand down, he touched Martin's rump, feeling the warmth through his glove. "From two hours of production, to eight."

A glance was exchanged among the investors.

Elias lifted his chin. "Would you like to see?"

Turning the suction up only to two more ticks had a curious effect. Elias stepped around to watch it himself, just as eager to see.

Martin's head lolled like he's drunk. There was a ripple across his teats as the skin puckered around the cups at the increased suction. The amount of milk produced was, frankly, impossible in a purely physical sense, far outstretching Martin's size.

But this was not a simple cow. And the Flesh did its work all too well.

"A gallon every forty minutes," Elias said simply. "And I'm not through with him yet."

The murmur around him was as full of wonder as it was fear.

"That's... exceptional, if true. The average of a, er, _traditional_ dairy cow would be eight gallons daily."

Elias nodded. "And I'll keep this one on the saddle all night."

"He won't, ah, dry out?"

Once more, Elias uncapped his marker and noted the milk level. Nearly three gallons. The entire tank could hold twenty-four. A curiously precise number. An aspiration.

After the demonstration, there were questions. These good people of the old world wanted to know the truth of things, what wasn't on the television and in the papers and in the interviews.

Elias explained the pricing of NuMilk. He outlined the quality levels, and touched the green tag in Martin's ear as he expounded on _heritage_ . The "no lactose" one earned a sigh of relief from some of the audience, likely sick of the expensive process to remove such a pesky sugar molecule.

As he explained the particulars of equipment and housing costs, he took time to note, "Off the saddle, your cows can take care of themselves, broadly speaking, which reduces costs of feeding and housing." He stroked the soft, almost velvet texture of Martin's skin. "For more intensive sessions and experimentation, you will need a more discrete set-up."

"This one greeted us and helped with the tour," someone pointed out. "And now it's-- he's like this."

Desperate for attention and out of his mind and mooing sweetly.

Elias folded his arms, tapping his fingers against his jacket. "For those interested in a serious investment, there are many tactics to learn about the care and handling." He briefly reached out, dancing fingertips over the back of Martin's neck, stroking down to the pressure point between the shoulder blades. "There are many ways to induce their need to be milked. Multiple techniques that will make even the most recalcitrant cow eager to be on the saddle. There are routines to keep them producing on a schedule. And it's worth noting, the effects are additive." He flicked out the ear tag to display the 23. The white lines had mostly flecked away by now, leaving just the impression of the numbers. "Martin is the result of very careful honing."

"But is he… sentient?"

Elias turned his head, and continued to stroke the curve of Martin's ear around the stubborn plastic tag. Such a small thing, yet so remarkable. "Well. I'm not a philosopher." And he smiled as Martin mood at the attention, like he'd never tasted an actual word in his life.

He showed his curious audience out soon after, making plans to meet up again to discuss further services and consultations. The night was getting on as he returned, locked the door behind himself again, and looked at his beautiful cow.

Between setup and the demonstration and pleasantries, it had been a shade over four hours. And Martin was perfectly content in his place, rubbing wetly against the saddle and letting out plaintive noises, head turning as he searched for Elias. For his earnest caretaker and master.

It was a shame Martin was such a useful partner in this new world. The desire to push him to his limits, to see just how much he could achieve on the saddle had tempted Elias for _years_ now. Dark longings to put his cow to work and to wring everything out of him to see what he contained followed Elias daily.

But who else was there who understood? Who he could share his ideas with? Who else could be such an engaging companion? So the fire in Elias was banked.

Walking over, Elias examined the tank, letting himself briefly imagine it full to the brim from just one cow. And just how many more tanks he'd need after that. If the process was replicable, well. The Magnus Kine Commune's little halfway houses for the newly bovine had plenty of residents at present. More, when this ranch was completed.

"Hm. Have I been neglecting you?" Elias asked as he returns to Martin, watching the blind way he tried to seek Elias out. "You did very well for our future friends. You always do so well, cow."

Martin was exceptional and pliant as his station would imply when Elias curled a hand in his hair and directed him. Mouth wet and eager in a sleepy sort of way, he took Elias' cock inside, tipping his head and swallowing until the head bumped against the back of his throat.

With a deep, pleased sigh, Elias moved his hips in short little circles, letting Martin's tongue glide and curl against the bottom of his cock. When he pushed all the way, Martin's throat constricted around the head even as he let out a happy lowing sound at the attention, at being filled and fulfilled.

The state Martin was in was deep, and there was no chance of it slipping out of place while a cock was in his mouth. So, indulgently, Elias thumbed one of the earphones off center, breaking the seal enough so he could be heard. Martin swallowed down saliva and suckled as Elias held position in his mouth.

"That's exactly what you need, isn't it, cow?" He scratched his nails through Martin's hair and dragged circles around the little horns there. They were perfect, almost endearing, and functioned as a decent anchor to hold and direct a cow's head. "I know you need this. I watch you every day, and wonder how long you can deny your nature." Martin's moo was faint, drowned out by cock, an wonderful sound. "My very good cow, teaching all the others their place." He looked down at the blindfolded creature. "I'm very proud of you, cow. You're going to fill that tank for me someday, aren't you?"

The sound Martin made as he tenderly held Elias' cock might've been assent. Or it might not have. It hardly mattered.

* * *

Martin felt very good.

This wasn't shocking. He always felt very good when he was milked, by mouths or by warm hands or by the relentless rhythmic tug of the machine as it drew the milk out of him, saved him from carrying it around.

His saddle was comfortable, and sometimes there was something in his mouth for him to lave with attention, to draw in and selfishly rub that _spot_ in the back of his throat on. But he was a good cow, and a good cow could come, surely?

It must've been true, because Martin lay in the saddle and came what seemed an impossible number of times. His teats were thrumming and not yet empty, sensitive around the cups as the machine turned up higher and higher. He must've been done soon, he thought as the machine reached max power and milk poured out of him. There couldn't be too much more.

The thought was insistent and comforting, but it was pressed down by the white noise hum in his ears, the susurrus that echoed off the stillness of his mind. He was a very good cow and he had more milk to give and that made him very good.

When he thought he should've been about done (surely, by now?) his faint distress snuffed out by the gag sliding into his mouth and a dildo sliding deep into his hole, vibrating with his saddle. Then, it became hard to think anything but _yes_ and _more_ and _I'm so good, that's why I feel so good,_ and _I want to be good._

Consciousness was strange for a while, and Martin slipped in and out of it, coming back less and less each time, like he left bits of himself asleep. He roused when the cock in his mouth was a real one again, and he heard someone murmur, "Nine gallons, that's more than ever, such a good cow, yes, my good cow."

That was him! He mooed back in understanding, and kept mooing as he came again, noticing his arms and legs were wrapped up in something tight and comforting. That was fine, and he slid under again when he was done, back into that cousin of slumber.

He'd be done soon. He was a good cow, and he had to work until he was done. He'd be done soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin is gonna be sore by the time he's done. And will probably sleep like the dreaming dead, bless him. I feel like he deserves a hot bath in a clawfoot tub with a fun bath bomb and someone petting his hair as he dozes. He works so hard.
> 
> I wrote this chapter before all the others, then wrote the rest of _ear tags_ to justify this scene.
> 
> everyone tells me that this is by far the weirdest thing i've ever written.
> 
> well at least i had fun. i hope you did too. next fic will be dramatically less weird. not completely not-weird, but _less_ weird, certainly.
> 
> follow me [@callmearcturus](callmearcturus.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [milking it (for all it's worth)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23058535) by [Bit_Not_Good](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bit_Not_Good/pseuds/Bit_Not_Good)
  * [Care & Feeding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743006) by [cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth)




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